Draco's Boy
by empathic siren
Summary: No longer a repost. HPDM. Nonmagic AU. A mysterious little boy named Harry moves in next door to Draco Malfoy, and he's determined to make him his friend and learn all of his secrets. Years later, he's determined to make Harry more than a friend.
1. Tales of the Walrus and the Lion

**A/N: **This is my first "real" attempt at Harry/Draco slash. Written for Sansa, who had a hankering for a non-magic AU featuring a protective!Draco and a shy!Harry who knew each other as children. Let me warn you now: Many of these characters are, in fact, out of character. I know it, They are intentionally written that way, and well, that's all I have to say on the subject. Hopefully, that will not deter you from reading. Also, I am well aware that Draco's birthday is in June—I've had to alter that slightly for story purposes. Happy reading!

Thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

Now, as is often said, "On with the show . . ."

**CHAPTER 1: TALES OF THE WALRUS, HORSE, WHALE AND LION**

Draco Malfoy was a curious boy. Alarmingly so, even for an eight-year-old. He was forever digging holes searching for treasure, spying on neighbors he was sure were really pirates in disguise, and going through the mail—his and his neighbors'—looking for anything that might catch his eye. So, it was with no surprise that from the moment he'd heard a low-pitched rumble, he'd scrambled to his feet to investigate.

A brightly colored moving lorry came into view as it rumbled down the street. Fascinated, Draco secreted himself behind the privet hedge in his front yard so that he could observe undetected. The lorry stopped in front of the house next door. It was then that Draco realized that old Mr. Culpepper had finally moved away. Draco was pleased. Mr. Culpepper had been extraordinarily boring. He never got anything in the mail that seemed the least bit interesting and he never went outside.

A car pulled in behind the lorry several minutes later and out came the strangest lot of characters Draco had ever seen. There was a man, a woman and a boy. A family, Draco supposed. The father was a large, round man that waddled like a duck and had a mustache and set jaw that reminded Draco of a walrus. Then, there was a horse-faced woman. She was tall and spindly and seemed the type to always be cross. The boy looked remarkably like the father, though shorter. He was squinty-eyed and seemed to take great pleasure in sneering. He was clearly older than Draco, as well as substantially larger. That put Draco off right away.

Draco watched as the walrus-man quickly set about directing the moving men. He was rather derisive in his comments, Draco thought. He huffed and puffed and preened nastily. The horse-faced woman had just sniffed and resettled her sweater over her shoulders as she whispered undoubtedly wicked things about the moving men to the walrus man. The little walrus, or whale as Draco had begun to think of him, delighted in playing mean tricks, causing the moving men to falter and nearly break the "priceless" treasures they were moving. Not liking what he'd seen, Draco started to turn back to his game of pretend when he saw a tuft of black hair hidden behind a large, tatty box make its way round the lorry. It was another boy! Edging closer, Draco watched the boy struggle with an over-large and obviously over-heavy box. The box slipped from the boy's grasp and landed with a solid thump on the ground. The boy was small—smaller than Draco, even—and his clothes were overlarge and threadbare. His hair was black as pitch and fell about his head like a wild, shaggy mane. He was pale and dreadfully thin. But, there was something about him. Something that made Draco want to step forward and say hello. One of the moving men stopped to help the little black-haired boy, but was quickly set back to work by the walrus man. Draco assumed the little boy was the son of one of the movers, there to help for the day. But then, the walrus man spoke, and it was clear that this little boy somehow belonged to the walrus man, horse-faced woman and whale boy.

"Boy!" the walrus man snapped, "Mind your work! Pick up your things and be sharp about it. I'll not have insufferable little layabouts like you mucking up our move!"

The boy sighed and rubbed his wrists. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he replied softly.

The walrus, horse and whale all sneered in the little black-haired boy's direction before turning on their heels and entering their new house. The door closed behind them sharply, leaving the boy all alone. The little black-haired boy sighed again and leaned over the box, trying to grasp it more firmly so that he could heave it into his small arms. Draco edged closer, but for all of his curiosity and talk of treasure hunting, he was afraid to say hello. In the end, he simply watched the little black-haired boy gather up the box and slowly trudge up the walk.

Once the door to old Mr. Culpepper's house clicked closed, Draco immediately ran back to his house. With a slam of the back door, he scampered into the kitchen. "Mum! Mum!" he called, hopping up and down with excitement.

Narcissa Malfoy glided into the kitchen, a serene smile on her face. "Must you scream, Draco?" she admonished lightly, "I do believe the Johnsons could hear you all the way down the street. And what have I told you about slamming the back door?"

Ignoring her, Draco rushed through his exciting tale about the new family next door. " . . . and there's another little boy, Mum. A little black-haired boy. Smaller than me! He was carrying a great big box all by himself and the walrus--"

"How many times must I tell you," Narcissa chastised, "we do not refer to people as animals."

Draco rolled his eyes, upset that his mum had interrupted his story. "But listen, Mum. The little boy, the little black-haired boy, he's nothing like the rest of them. He seems nice. I'm going to make him my friend!"

Narcissa chuckled and pulled Draco into a hug. "You are, are you? Did you say hello?" she asked hopefully.

Draco tried to wiggle away from his mother's affection—he was eight, after all, and much too old for hugs. "Not yet. I've more investigation to do first," he hedged.

Narcissa's smile faltered. "I'm sure he's a very nice boy, Draco. We could say hello together. Bake some chocolate biscuits and take them over tomorrow. How does that sound?"

Draco pulled away and paced a bit and wrung his hands. "No," he said slowly. "I really do have to investigate more," he said softly, clearly not interested in meeting his new friend just yet.

Narcissa nodded shortly and sent Draco up for a bath. It was getting harder and harder to put off Draco's friends calling for summer play dates and parties. Even their parents were starting to wonder what was wrong, often asking Narcissa if Draco was feeling well. The Malfoy family was prominent and, given the events of last year, curiosity about the wealthy, beautiful family had increased ten-fold. Draco had not dealt well with the sudden spotlight.

The sudden, violent loss of his father a year ago had affected Draco more than anyone could have guessed. He'd withdrawn further and further into a solitary world of pretend. He had trouble making new friends and was easily intimidated by those bigger and louder than he. Though, finding someone louder was a difficult task.

It was Lucius's own fault that he was dead. He'd gotten greedy and had fallen in with a bad lot. When a business deal went pear-shaped, he'd been caught in the crossfire and was brutally murdered. The murder had shaken the small town. Everyone assumed that Lucius had been involved unwittingly. For her and her son's sake, Narcissa was hell-bent on keeping it that way. "Damn you, Lucius," she muttered as she got to her feet and started preparing dinner. He'd left his wife and his child to live with the shame of his actions and to soldier on without him. Days like today made it hard.

Draco was skulking about his prim backyard and hiding behind the wax myrtle as he watched the now familiar little black-haired boy dig about in the garden next door. He'd been watching his quarry for several weeks now—since he'd moved in. He was always in the garden. Working. Alone. The horse-faced woman—Aunt Petunia he'd heard her called—came out and said something sharp to the black-haired boy. That was all she seemed to do. Say sharp things. The black-haired boy merely nodded, as he always did. His eyes were downcast and furtive as he knelt in the flowerbed and continued weeding.

For three weeks, Draco had been investigating, observing. In all that time, nothing had given him any indication that the little black-haired boy was anything like the whale, the walrus or the horse. The boy's hair was as messy and wild as ever. It had grown on Draco. It reminded him a bit of the ragtag mane on his Leo the Lion plushy. Draco was enchanted. This boy, the little lion, for that was what Draco had decided he was, was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Beyond being small and adorably rumpled, his skin held the sweet flush of shyness. His eyes—greener than grass—sparkled when he smiled, though Draco found that his little lion rarely smiled.

In that moment, Draco decided that not only would this boy be his friend, but he would be his boy. He would play with Draco, do whatever Draco said and would never, never leave. In his mind, Draco and his boy had played hundreds of games, shared deep secrets and conspired together in numerous investigations.

He smiled as he heard the familiar tune the little boy hummed as he worked. Several minutes later, the little lion giggled when a butterfly landed on his hand. He slowly raised his hand and let the butterfly's wings catch in the sunlight. Draco thought he heard him talking to the butterfly—telling her how lovely she was and how much he wished he could fly away too. A second later, the butterfly flapped her wings and took off gently. In a fit of impulsiveness that Draco had never seen from him before, his little lion scrambled to his feet and chased the butterfly, laughing softly and smiling as he did so.

He gave chase for quite some time, eventually, darting out of view. Draco stepped closer to find him and inadvertently snapped a twig. The little lion abruptly stopped his chase and turned at the sound. Draco was caught. The boys stared at each other for several long moments.

Eventually, the little lion gave a fleeting glance towards his house and bit his lip before turning back to Draco. He took a few steps forward, moving closer to Draco. After a moment's hesitation, he gave a small smile and a little wave. "Hullo," he said softly.

Draco stepped forward as well. "Hullo," he said. "What's your name?" he asked, his head cocked to one side, dissecting his boy.

The boy gave another fleeting look at his new house. "Err, Harry. My name's Harry," he said, just as softly, just as shyly, as before.

Harry. Draco thought this name suited his new friend rather well. "Hi, Harry. I'm Draco," he said as he stepped closer, suddenly feeling bolder than he had in a long time. He was surprised when Harry stepped back nervously. He seemed awfully skittish—not very lion-ish at all. Perhaps he was a cowardly lion, then? That suited Draco just fine. He liked being the protector.

Draco stepped forward slowly. "It's okay," Draco said as if talking to one of the wild rabbits he often found on his godfather's property, "I'm not trying to hurt you." Surely that's what Harry thought Draco meant to do. After all, Draco was bigger than Harry and bigger children hurt smaller ones. Draco smiled reassuringly and was instantly warmed when Harry smiled back.

The back door to Mr. Culpepper's house slammed. "Boy," Aunt Petunia snapped, "Where are you?"

Harry sighed and automatically turned back towards the house. After a few steps, Harry hazarded a quick glance back at Draco, smiled shyly, and waved goodbye.

Draco nearly crowed in triumph as he waved back.

"Mum! Mu-um!" Draco cried as he scampered in the back door, letting it slam behind him.

"Draco, mind the door," Narcissa said.

"Guess what, guess what, guess what!" he said while jumping up and down.

"What's gotten into you, my dragon," Narcissa said with a laugh, delighted that anything could make him so happy.

"I spoke to Harry!" Draco said in a dramatic stage whisper, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed excitement.

"Who is Harry, love?" Narcissa asked, somewhat confused.

"The little boy next door. You know, my friend!"

"You did? Why, that's wonderful Draco. What did you two talk about?"

"We said hello. That's all we had time for. His aunt called for him. She's not very nice."

"Draco, don't speak ill of the neighbors."

"Well, she isn't. I'm just telling the truth."

Narcissa shook her head, chuckled, and changed the subject. "Well, tell me all about your new friend, then. Shall we make biscuits for him? Take them over?"

Draco bit his lip. "Not just yet. He's really, really shy, Mum. He's more shy than me, I think."

Narcissa's eyebrows shot up at Draco's perceptiveness. It was likely unintentional, but it made his new friend sound all the more intriguing. "Then you should talk to him more. Make him feel better."

"I will. Thanks, Mum." Draco hugged his mother impulsively before running up the stairs to his room. Narcissa smiled, glad that today was a good day. A very good day.

"I've decided we should be friends," Draco announced with a haughty expression as he stepped tentatively into Mr. Culpepper's backyard and plopped down beside Harry. Eventually, he'd have to start thinking of it as Harry's house. Harry's backyard.

Harry sat back on his heels and wiped his muddy hands on his trousers. His lips quirked in amusement. "You have, have you?"

"Yes."

Draco had become bolder since the day the boys had said hello. Under the guise of making Harry feel better and less skittish, he'd taken to following Harry around while he worked. Draco talked and talked and talked while Harry worked and listened. He couldn't believe his luck in finding someone as interested in his stories as he was.

Harry hesitated. He looked back at the house, like he always did. He bit his bottom lip. He seemed deep in thought. Finally, he turned back to Draco. "All right, then. Friends," he said softly.

Draco was thrilled. Harry was his friend, his boy. "Let's play, then," Draco said with a big smile. "I've dug a hole. Looking for treasure," he whispered, his gray eyes sparkling with excitement.

Harry smiled back, his own green eyes sparkling with conspiracy. He started to say something, but was cut off by the shrill voice of Aunt Petunia.

"Boy! Where are you? What are you doing?" she said from the door.

Harry winced. "I've got to go, Draco. I'll see you soon."

Draco nodded, sad that he'd gotten to spend so little time with his friend. He trudged back to his house, allowed the back door to close gently behind him and sat heavily at the kitchen table. He wanted to play with Harry! All Harry seemed to do was work in that awful garden.

"Draco? What's wrong, love," Narcissa asked as she came into the kitchen and saw a dejected Draco slumped at the table.

"Harry couldn't play with me," he said petulantly.

"Oh, I see," Narcissa said. "Perhaps he's not allowed to play with anyone until his relatives meet his friends. Have you said hello to his aunt?"

Draco shuddered at the thought. "No," he said in low tones. But, that gave him an idea. "Mum!" he cried as he scrambled to his feet. "Can we make them chocolate biscuits and take them over and say hello and everything? You could talk to Harry's aunt and make her let him stay with me. Then, he could play with me all of the time!"

"Slow down, my dragon, slow down! Of course we can make biscuits. We'll make them tonight and pop round tomorrow. How does that sound?"

Draco beamed. "Brilliant!"

The next day, Draco ran over to Harry's garden and plopped down where he was digging. "Mum is coming over soon!" he said conspiratorially.

Harry eyed him warily before returning to his work. "Why," he asked.

"To talk to your aunt. Maybe then she'll let you play with me!"

Harry sighed. This was not going to go well, he knew. It was better for everyone concerned if he and Draco didn't become friends. It's not like he'd ever had many or kept any. Why start now? He was about to open his mouth, when he heard the back door slam.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia called.

Harry closed his eyes and winced. He was sure that she'd seen Draco. "Yes, Aunt Petunia?"

Draco was unprepared for what happened next. The horse grabbed Harry by the upper arm, pulled him up and dragged him away. Draco inhaled sharply when Harry yelped softly in surprise. He moved closer to hear what she was saying, not liking the way she shook him like a half-empty flour sack.

"How many times have I told you not to bother the neighbors," Aunt Petunia hissed between clenched teeth as she shook Harry even harder.

Draco could tell that she was hurting his friend, and when he saw a silent tear fall from Harry's eyes, he became very, very angry. It was his job to protect his little lion, after all. That's what bigger kids were supposed to do. His father had always told him that. "I talked to him," he said abruptly as he strode forward.

"I beg your pardon," Petunia said as she looked down at Draco, her hand now holding Harry's arm at an awkward angle.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I spoke to Harry. I said hello. He was just being nice. He's been keeping me company while he works in the garden. I didn't mean any harm."

Harry looked at Draco incredulously, as if no one had ever come to his defense before. He winced when the lady holding him squeezed viciously before letting go. "Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he muttered mournfully.

Petunia surveyed Harry critically before turning her attention to Draco. "What is your name?"

"Draco Malfoy."

A gleam came into Petunia Dursley's eyes. "Indeed?" she questioned softly. "Is your mother about, boy?" she asked as she craned her neck to get a better view of Draco's immaculate garden.

As if on cue, Narcissa Malfoy's voice floated over the wax myrtle. "Draco? Where are you? I thought you were going to wait for me," she called out. Narcissa glided elegantly into the backyard searching for Draco. "Oh," she said in surprise at the sight of Harry and Petunia.

Harry nearly gasped at the sight of Mrs. Malfoy. He'd never seen someone so beautiful. Well, except for the ginger haired lady he sometimes saw in his dreams. Mrs. Malfoy's pale blonde hair fell in soft waves and her blue-gray eyes were kind and intelligent. She was elegantly dressed in smart clothes that weren't nearly as fussy as Aunt Petunia's. She was holding a tray of some sort piled with something that looked suspiciously like chocolate biscuits.

"Hello," Narcissa began, "You must be our new neighbors. I'm Narcissa Malfoy and this is my son, Draco," she said gesturing towards Draco who had moved to Harry's side and glared at Petunia. "I hope he isn't being a bother," Narcissa continued, noticing the strange look her son was giving their new neighbor, "He's a very curious child and has enjoyed visiting here. I've been terribly remiss in coming over to say hello. Draco and I have baked you some biscuits, to say welcome."

Narcissa held out the tray to Petunia who nearly tripped over her feet in her haste to take it. She shoved the tray in Harry's hands and hissed at him to take them inside.

"It's so nice to meet you," Petunia gushed. "I'm Mrs. Petunia Dursley. We're in the process of getting settled, as you can see. I don't know who lived in our home before, but obviously they let the garden go to ruin." Petunia sniffed disdainfully before leaning in conspiratorially, thinking she was winning points with the elegant Mrs. Malfoy. "I will, of course, be getting it up to appropriate standards immediately." She leaned in further, causing Narcissa to step back slightly. "We've got to show everyone in the neighborhood what's expected," she said softly, with a vicious bite.

"Oh," Narcissa said, bewildered by Mrs. Dursley's rudeness. Searching about for something to say, her eyes found Harry as he returned from inside. He was adorable and just as Draco had described him; small, rumpled and shy. He moved quietly and with caution, she noticed. She also noticed that his clothes were oversized and worn; completely unlike Mrs. Dursley's well-fitted, fashionable attire. When he finally joined them, she could tell he was nervous. Narcissa bent down, a warm smile alighting her face. "And who is this then," she said gently, amused when Draco pulled the smaller boy to him.

"This is Harry," Draco announced, completely ignoring Harry's shocked expression at being pulled towards Draco. "He's my friend. The one I've been telling you about," Draco said proudly.

Narcissa bit back a chuckle. Poor Harry had no idea what he'd gotten himself into, Narcissa thought. She stuck out her hand and said seriously, "Well, Harry. It's lovely to meet you."

Harry hesitated. But, with Draco's prodding, took Narcissa's hand and shook it quickly before darting back into place. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," he murmured shyly.

Narcissa was enchanted. And, if the expression on her son's face was anything to go by, so was he. Yes, Harry had no idea what he'd signed on for in being Draco's friend. Regardless, though, he brought out the best in Draco, and Narcissa was glad for it. Narcissa stood, smoothing the front of her pants as she did so. "Your nephew is quite lovely, Mrs. Dursley. He must be an absolute delight."

Petunia looked horror stricken at the compliment.

Neither Narcissa nor Draco noticed that Harry rolled his eyes and sighed softly.

Narcissa continued, not understanding Petunia's expression. "Draco would like for Harry to spend the night on frequent occasion. Tomorrow, in fact. Also, I know he'd love it if Harry could come over and play during the day. I can assure you that he'd be quite safe. It's just Draco and me, so nothing to overwhelm him. Besides, it would give you a chance to do some of your own gardening. From what I hear, little Harry has been stealing all of your gardening time." Narcissa laughed lightly. Petunia forced herself to follow suit. "I just love spending time in the garden, don't you? And now, you'll have the chance."

Petunia struggled with what to say. Through the gossip on the street, she'd already learned that Narcissa Malfoy was the most important person in the neighborhood. It was important for Petunia to make a good impression. But, in order to do that, she was going to have to let Harry leave the house. For prolonged periods of time. To have fun, from the sounds of it. Eventually, her pride and social avarice won. "Yes, I think that would be fine," she said with saccharine sweetness. "Harry is so much more . . . immature than our son Dudley. And, Dudley, like most little boys, plays a bit rough—too much for little Harry here. Though, I daresay that he and Draco would get on quite well. Nevertheless, I agree that it might be good for Harry to spend time with a new friend."

Harry watched all of this in shock. He couldn't believe that his Aunt Petunia was actually going to let him spend time with the Malfoys. In their last house, he'd barely been let out of the cupboard under the stairs.

"Can he come tonight?" Draco asked excitedly.

"Draco," Narcissa admonished. "You can play tomorrow. I'm sure his aunt won't mind." Narcissa said lightly.

"Yes, of course," Petunia said with a tight smile. She deflated in the face of losing her source of free labor in the garden. But, the potential social gain more than made up for it. For some inexplicable reason, Narcissa's son, just as beautiful and elegant as his mother, had taken a liking to Harry, a scruffy, rag-a-muffin little urchin. Well, that would have to change. But for now, she would simply have to allow it.

"Wonderful," Narcissa said. "See you tomorrow, Harry. Come over whenever you'd like. In fact, join us for breakfast. I'm making Draco's favorite—chocolate chip pancakes—there's always plenty to share."

Harry looked up and over to his aunt, who nodded primly, before saying thank you and that he'd like that very much.

Petunia and Harry watched as Narcissa and Draco walked back to their house, Draco chattering about his newest attempt to find treasure. Once Petunia heard their door close, she rounded on Harry and grabbed his shoulders, her nails digging in as she did so. Ignoring his whine of protest, she shook him hard. "You are NOT to say anything about what goes on in our home, do you understand me, boy? Nothing!"

Harry knew exactly what she meant and nodded mutely, swallowing thickly.

"Good," she snapped before releasing his shoulders. "Now, get to your chores and be quick about it," she barked before turning on her heel and stalking to the house.

Harry sighed and returned to his weeding. He looked over at the Malfoy house and smirked when he saw a now familiar blonde head just poking out of the window. Draco was smiling at Harry and waving goodbye. Perhaps things would be different here, he thought, hopeful for the first time in a very long while.


	2. I'll Fly Away

A special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

CHAPTER 2: I'LL FLY AWAY 

Harry woke the next morning and jumped from his little cot, remembering that he'd been invited for chocolate chip pancakes. He'd never had chocolate chip pancakes, but anything with chocolate had to be good. Truthfully, he'd never been invited anywhere before, either. He was afraid that he would mess everything up, that he wouldn't know what to do, what to say, that he wouldn't be helpful enough. Deciding that he didn't want to lose his one and only friend so quickly, Harry dug through the drawers of his secondhand dresser to find his best clothes.

After getting dressed, he dashed out of his little windowless room that had served the previous owners as a storage closet, and ran to the bath. He brushed his teeth furiously. He then spent the next fifteen minutes valiantly trying to comb his hair into some semblance of order. He really didn't want to look like a ruffian. Aunt Petunia always said his hair made him look like a ruffian and that no one wanted to be seen with such creatures. Sighing, he watched as his hair poked up once more and hoped against hope that the Malfoys wouldn't turn him straight out.

Harry trudged from the bath and started down the stairs when he stopped. Gifts. He'd forgotten gifts. From the little metal grate on his cupboard door, he'd seen dinner guests bring flowers and bottles of some sort to his aunt and uncle when they'd come for dinner. Harry quickly scrambled back to his room and dove straight for the floor, his little arm reaching under his cot for a familiar coffee can that held his vast treasure store. He quickly turned it over on the floor and began sifting. His fingers hovered over a large marble before moving on. He fingered the soft cardinal feather he'd found last winter and quickly passed over the oft-viewed photograph of him as a baby. Finally, he spied what he knew would be perfect for Draco—a small, smooth, silvery stone he'd found in a creek bed he'd explored one day last summer. It reminded him a bit of Draco's eyes.

Dropping the stone in his pocket, he dashed down the stairs and was surprised to find Aunt Petunia waiting for him at the foot with a curious looking knapsack in her hands. She kept glancing at the kitchen door as she shoved the knapsack in Harry's arms and hissed, "Remember what I said. And, don't come back before tomorrow!"

Harry nodded and skipped across the threshold, hardly daring to believe that he was actually free. Before heading to the Malfoys, though, he wandered into the back garden of the Dursleys' house, intent on picking a few flowers for Mrs. Malfoy. Harry hadn't made his way to the back garden yet, and he recalled seeing some particularly striking bits of color in the far corner. He spied what he was after and quickly set about gathering up the brightly colored flowers. He loved plants. He'd even learned the names of many of them from the nursery man who delivered to their old house. He was kind and had even given Harry a few packets of seeds now and then.

When Harry felt he had enough, he trotted over to the Malfoy house and stood in front of the door. He was terrified, he realized. Taking a deep breath, he shifted the knapsack to the crook of his arm and knocked. Within seconds he heard what sounded like a herd of buffalo running through the house only to be nearly knocked backward when the door flew open and Draco bounced onto the porch.

Draco's face split into a huge grin. "He's here! Mum, Harry's here!" he began shouting as he grabbed Harry's free hand.

Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline and he gasped as Draco grabbed him and began pulling him through the house at breakneck speed. It was all that Harry could do to keep from falling.

Narcissa turned from the cooker as Draco barreled into the kitchen with a bewildered Harry in tow. She shook her head slightly and smiled. "Draco," she admonished lightly, "not so loud. Breakfast in a few minutes, I think," she said.

Draco released Harry's hand from his grip as he scrambled to the table, ready for his pancakes. This left Harry standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding his knapsack in the crook of his arm and the small bunch of flowers in his hand. Harry bit his bottom lip, not sure what to do.

"Good morning Harry," Narcissa said, thus relieving him of having to start the conversation. "I hope you're hungry. I've made loads of pancakes."

Harry brightened at that and stepped forward. He thrust the flowers at Mrs. Malfoy and tried to remember what the guests always said who came to his aunt and uncle's house. "Thank you so much for inviting me," he began formally, "these are for you," he said, waggling the flowers.

Narcissa smiled. What an odd little boy, she thought. So formal and soft-spoken that it made her want to snap him up and tickle him until he crowed with laughter. "Why Harry, these are lovely," she said as she took the flowers. "Thank you. Hydrangeas are my favorites."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Those are lace caps," he said excitedly as he pointed out the unique shape of the hydrangea blossom. "And, I thought you might like this red anise I found. I added the var—varieg—var-ie-gat-ed pitto-spo-rum for a bit of green," he said, proud that he'd only stumbled over the word variegated. He'd remembered that one from the nursery man. He'd raved about the beauty of variegated pittosporum. Harry equally enjoyed the way it sounded when he said it. He'd practiced it over and over until he could say it correctly.

"Why, Harry, you know an awful lot about plants!" Narcissa exclaimed, both truly surprised that he was as knowledgeable as he was and happy that there was something that would get this demure child to chatter. She turned to find a vase for her little bouquet and asked, "How did you learn so much?" She was surprised that when she turned around Harry had a pensive, almost wary expression on his face.

"I spend a fair bit of time outdoors," he said softly. "I work—I like to work in the garden," he said, emphasizing the word 'like,' as if reciting something by rote. He shrugged. "I love plants," he said genuinely.

"Well, that certainly explains your play clothes, then!" Narcissa said brightly as she gestured to Harry's outfit, happy to have solved the little mystery of his overlarge, thread bare clothing. The child obviously wanted to be comfortable and didn't want to dirty his better clothes while digging in the garden. Narcissa herself had a whole "garden" wardrobe and it was similar to Harry's.

"Err, yes," Harry said as he smoothed his best pants self-consciously.

Draco, disliking the fact that he was being ignored, banged his little fist on the table, demanding pancakes. "Mum, we'd like our pancakes, now," Draco said with a little sniff. "Harry, you sit here," Draco demanded as he patted the seat next to him.

"Draco!" Narcissa admonished while bringing everything to the table except the pancakes. Harry hopped into his seat and smiled at Draco, as he pushed the small, silver stone into his friend's hand.

"Cor! What's this?" Draco whispered excitedly while Narcissa busied herself with final preparations.

"A gift," Harry said simply. "You know, to thank you for inviting me."

Draco turned the stone over and over in his hand, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

"Where'd you get it?"

"I found it last summer. In a creek bed behind the Dursley's house."

Draco's head snapped up, his eyes glittering. "Do you think it's treasure? Do you think a pirate left it there?"

Harry looked at Draco carefully before responding. He hadn't known his new friend for very long, but he knew Draco was fixated on buried treasure and pirates and other flights of fancy. Harry found himself reluctant to destroy that, even though he already knew there was no such thing as buried treasure. Not for him, at least.

"Well? Do you?" Draco asked.

Harry smiled. "Yeah, maybe," he said in a whisper. "There, er, is a river not far from there. Maybe the pirates, uh, dropped it on the way to bury their other treasure."

Draco nodded enthusiastically, his tantrum all but forgotten.

Of course, the smell of the warm pancakes could have accomplished the same thing, Harry thought. As soon as the platter was on the table, Draco dropped the stone in his pocket and attacked the pancake platter with relish, heaving three, no four, huge, squashy pancakes onto his plate with his fork. Harry watched as Mrs. Malfoy sat and gracefully took two pancakes for herself. Draco and his mother began chattering about something, leaving Harry to his own devices. Not sure how many he was allowed, Harry hesitantly reached out and took one pancake. It was quite large, actually. Not sure what to do next, he watched through the fringe brushing his forehead as Draco generously buttered all of his pancakes before smothering them in syrup. Mrs. Malfoy poured a bit of syrup on hers as well and started cutting them into neat little bites as she listened to her son chatter about Mrs. Figg and her suspicious cats.

Harry decided that he mustn't ask for the butter or syrup, as neither were offered to him, and hesitantly picked up his knife and fork, trying to match Mrs. Malfoy's neat cuts. He eyed the speckled little cake before finally taking a bite. Oh, marvel! The taste was magnificent! Harry unconsciously made a tiny moan of appreciation, causing the chatter to stop and Draco and Narcissa to look over. Harry froze mid-bite. He'd clearly done something wrong. He swallowed carefully.

"Have you never had chocolate chip pancakes before, love?" Narcissa asked, amused by Harry's reaction.

A deep blush crept over Harry's cheeks, as he swallowed hard, looked down and shook his head afraid he'd be turned out right away.

"They're really good, aren't they?" Draco whispered in Harry's ear—the sweet smell of chocolate and syrup on his breath. "Better than treasure, I think."

Harry smiled, glad that his friend and Mrs. Malfoy weren't going to toss him out on his ear. Not yet, anyway.

Narcissa looked down at Harry's lone, syrup-less pancake. "I know it seems strange, dear, but they really are quite good with butter and syrup. Try it," she said as she moved the butter dish and syrup in front of Harry.

Harry nodded. He quickly buttered what remained of his pancake and poured a generous amount of syrup over it before Mrs. Malfoy could change her mind. The taste was even better now. He couldn't believe it. He relished every bite of his pancake, sad to see it end. He then gulped his milk, savoring every bit of it as well. When finished, he looked up and saw that Draco had taken two more pancakes for himself and was eating them with just as much gusto. Harry smiled at his friend, finding his antics amusing.

"Harry, would you like some more?" Narcissa asked, concerned that he'd only eaten one pancake. He was a growing boy, after all, and one pancake couldn't possibly be enough.

"Er, no thank you," Harry said softly, afraid to overstep. Struggling to recall the order of meal pleasantries, Harry carefully laid his silverware down and thanked Mrs. Malfoy profusely for such a wonderful meal.

Narcissa really wasn't sure what to make of this little boy in front of her. He was so serious and formal and . . . odd. He was as shy as a toddler but had the bearing of one much older than Draco. He was ridiculously small and thin. "Harry, how old are you?" she asked suddenly. She'd assumed that he was a bit younger than Draco based on his size, but now she wasn't so sure.

"Yeah, Harry. How old are you?" Draco asked while he smacked his lips and cleared away the last of the pancake crumbs.

"Seven," Harry said, "But I'll be eight soon," he added hastily.

Narcissa was surprised. Harry was only a few months younger than her son, then. How fascinating that they could be such different creatures, even at this age. Perhaps he was frail? Maybe that was why he ate so little? It would certainly explain his size and his somewhat pale complexion. She'd have to keep an eye on things to make sure that Draco didn't push him too hard.

Harry pretended not to notice that Mrs. Malfoy was studying him. "Harry, are you sure you wouldn't like a bit more to eat? You're awfully thin. We need to get some meat on those little bones."

Familiar with this kind of scrutiny, Harry decided that it was best to lay the groundwork now for the lies he would eventually have to tell. "I'm fine, Mrs. Malfoy. I—I just don't get hungry," Harry said very quietly. "I get sick a lot," he continued, "and, I have to miss loads of school.

"Are you . . . I mean to say . . . is there a name . . . what makes you get sick, Harry?" Narcissa fumbled, not entirely sure how to ask her question.

Harry shrugged and looked down at his plate. There was a rather large crumb on the left side of the plate that was difficult to ignore. "Dunno. I just get sick," he lied. "Colds, flus, and stuff. I'm usually only sick for a few days," he murmured.

Draco frowned. He didn't like that his boy, his Harry, got sick a lot. Being sick was no fun. He hated being sick. Being sick meant having to stay in bed under too many covers and taking yucky medicine. He put his sticky hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'll keep you company when you get sick, Harry. We can play indoors just as well as out," he said solemnly.

"Yes," Narcissa said, picking up the thread and wanting to remove the forlorn expression that had wended its way across Harry's face, "and he'll bring you lemon ices and soup to make you feel better. There's nothing wrong with getting sick, Harry, it happens to everyone. It just happens to you more often sounds like."

Harry looked up at her, his green-eyed gaze startling in its intensity. Narcissa nearly gasped. "Yes, it does," he said softly before shaking his head and murmuring his thanks. Seeing that everyone was done with breakfast, he hopped down from his seat and started taking plates towards the sink.

"And just what do you think you're doing, young man?" Narcissa said playfully, hoping to remove the rather somber mood that had overtaken the breakfast table.

"Cleaning up," Harry said, bewildered.

"You are just the most polite little thing, aren't you?" Narcissa said as she rose and took the plates from Harry's hands. "Cleaning dishes is no business for little boys, now the two of you clear out and have fun playing," she said with a smile and gentle swat to Draco's bottom.

Draco grabbed Harry's hand once again and dragged him out of the back door. "Come on Harry! It's time to play!"

The boys spent all day playing—digging holes, making treasure maps, and spying on Mrs. Figg's cats. Harry did whatever Draco wanted to do. This, of course, suited Draco perfectly. And, Draco was secretly thrilled whenever he could get Harry to laugh, or to run, or to do anything silly. As the sun began to set low in the sky, the melodious voice of Narcissa Malfoy called the boys in for dinner. Harry ate as much as he dared, but he could tell that Mrs. Malfoy was restraining herself from putting more food on his plate.

"Draco, you are a mess," she said, amused by his mussed hair and the ring of spaghetti sauce around his lips. There were smudges of dirt on his elbows and clothing. Harry, she noticed, was in much the same state, save the spaghetti sauce. He ate neatly, almost daintily. He seemed to savor his food. "I think it's time two little boys had their bath and then went to bed," she said with an arched brow.

Draco sighed, but then remembered that he and Harry could play in the bath with his colored soap crayons and pull-string boats. "Let's go, Harry," Draco said, grabbing Harry's hand. "We can play pirates! I've got loads of boats to share."

Harry tried to wriggle free of Draco's grasp. "You go ahead first. I'll help your mum with the dishes."

Draco gave Harry an odd look. "But, I have bath toys. Don't you want to play?"

Harry took a deep breath. He absolutely could not take a bath with Draco. It would require too many explanations—explanations he was never, ever going to give if he didn't have too. "I—I don't like . . . I only take baths by myself," he said softly.

Draco shrugged and let go of Harry's hand. "Okay," clearly not disturbed by Harry's pronouncement. "I'll let you know when I'm done."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and nodded.

Harry watched as one of Draco's pull-string boats skimmed across the soapy bath water's surface. He giggled softly as it turned in circles and knocked other little boats out of the way. This was by far the best part of the day. Usually, he was only permitted a short, tepid shower in the evening—just enough to wash away the grime, but never enough to feel clean. Here, he'd played with toys and had scrubbed himself twice over already, luxuriating in the feel of the warm water and smell of the soap from the brightly patterned tube.

"Harry! Hurry up! I've got a surprise!" Draco's voice was muffled through the door, but no less enthusiastic. Harry stretched once more and gingerly got out of the bath. Mrs. Malfoy had given him a huge, fluffy towel along with pajamas he'd never seen before. He assumed they'd come from the strange knapsack Auth Petunia had pressed into his hands earlier in the day. After drying himself, Harry looked himself over critically. The bruises weren't so bad. Just a few, mostly around his upper arms and a few others scattered about. He could have explained them away, he supposed. But, he hadn't wanted to. Today had been perfect. He wasn't going to let anything spoil that. Harry dressed quickly, surprised that the pajamas were new, of a good quality and fit relatively well. He felt like he'd fallen into another world.

Feeling drowsy from a day of play, several good meals and a long, warm bath, Harry stumbled from the bathroom anxiously looking forward to a night's sleep in a soft bed. Therefore, it was with dismay that he found Draco's room had been transformed into some sort of Bedouin tent made of blankets, sheets, shawls, chairs and a creatively placed broom handle.

A little blonde head poked out from behind the "tent" flap. "Harry! Look what Mum and I made! It's a tent for us to sleep in tonight. We can pretend that we're gypsies roaming the lands in search of treasure. Won't that be fun?"

Harry looked longingly at the soft bed and sighed. After having spent several years in the cupboard under the stairs in the Dursleys' last house, he couldn't quite see the appeal of sleeping on the floor inside of a small, enclosed space. He shook his head and smiled softly at Draco. "Sounds like fun," he said.

Draco beamed. "Come on then," he said as he darted back into the tent, waiting for Harry.

Harry got in and found the small space heaped with squashy pillows, sheets, blankets, toys, books and small torches. There was even a small radio in the corner playing some sort of popular music in low tones. By far the best, though, was the fairy lights strung haphazardly along the tent's ceiling. It was a short strand—just enough to give a smattering of soft light. Harry looked up, transfixed.

"Mum helped with that part," Draco admitted, seeing where Harry was staring. Draco patted the line of pillows next to his. "That's your bed. Mum made them extra soft," Draco said as he snuggled under his own blankets.

Harry lay down and found the little pillow bed surprisingly comfortable. The blankets were soft and warm and he thought that he could see the appeal of the little tent. For a moment, he wasn't Harry Potter, the bane of the Dursleys' existence. He was Harry, the gypsy, roaming the lands with his friend and comrade, Draco.

"All settled in, boys?" Narcissa called from the doorway.

"Yes, Mum," "Yes, ma'am," the boys murmured in response.

"All right then, sweet dreams my little dragon. Sweet dreams to you too, Harry." With that, Narcissa switched off the lights and pulled the door closed.

Harry flushed. He couldn't recall a time when he'd been wished sweet dreams. He burrowed deeper into his squashy pillow bed, desperate to hold onto this little fantasy for as long as he could. For a long while, Harry stared at the fairy lights and listened to the faint strains of the radio. He was just slipping into sleep when Draco's voice pulled him back.

"Harry," Draco said. "You still awake?"

"Yeah."

"I had a lot of fun today."

"Me too," Harry said, meaning it.

"I wish you could spend every night here."

"Me too."

Silence stretched. There was an advertisement for toothpaste playing now. Harry could just make out the jaunty little jingle.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

Draco hesitated. "Why do you live with your aunt and uncle?"

"My mum and dad died when I was little, " Harry said softly.

"Oh. Do you miss them?"

Harry thought about that. No one had ever asked him that. "I—I don't know. I didn't really know them."

"Oh."

"I think . . . I think I miss having parents," Harry said softly, his mind replaying all of the wonderful things Mrs. Malfoy had done for him in just one day.

"Yeah." Draco rolled over and rested his head in his hand. "Why is your aunt always so cross?"

Harry blanched. "She's not that bad," Harry said evasively, hoping Draco wouldn't ask any more questions about his relatives.

"I miss my dad," Draco said softly. "He was a brave man. He was the best. I hate that he died. Mean men killed him when he tried to stop them from hurting someone."

Harry swallowed thickly. He may not have known his parents, but he understood the pain of their loss. "I'm sorry, Draco."

Draco sniffed a little bit. "Me too. For your parents, I mean."

There was some sort of call-in show playing on the radio. A canned laugh track spurted through every few seconds, though what was meant to be funny was lost in the radio's low murmurings and faint static.

"I'm glad were friends, Harry. We can look out for each other. Keep each other from getting sad."

Harry nodded, hoping that Draco saw him. He must have, because Draco smiled brightly before rolling back over and burrowing into his covers. "G'night, Harry."

"Night, Draco."


	3. The Price of Loyalty

**A/N: **Thank you again for so many wonderful, wonderful reviews. The author's cup is definitely overflowing. Thank you.

As far as whether anyone will discover Harry's abuse . . . I'm not telling. He's quite skilled at hiding it, as are the Dursleys. As you soon shall see.

A special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

CHAPTER 3: THE PRICE OF LOYALTY 

Petunia snatched back the curtains in disgust. Draco Malfoy was once again playing with her mangy little nephew. Despite her best efforts over the last month to get Draco and Dudley to play together, the stupid little boy preferred Harry's friendship. She'd had to hire a man to come take care of the garden, had been forced to purchase a few sets of brand-new clothing for the little brat and had, on occasion, carefully warned Vernon about his behavior towards the boy. She did not want nosey questions. There had been far too many of them from some of the neighbors on Privet Drive—she was determined that it would be different here. Narcissa Malfoy's favor was the key to ensuring that success.

Harry was having the time of his life. It had been nearly a month since he and Draco had started playing together and he couldn't believe how much fun he was having. He'd desperately wished things would be different here, and was starting to believe that they would be. He had fewer chores than before, a few sets of clothing that fit and even a friend. One that had sneered at Dudley's bumbling attempts to force his way in. Harry had been most happy about that.

"Want to spend the night?" Draco asked casually as he continued fashioning a "knight" out of sticks and twine. They were going to play fairy castle as soon as they had their little diminutive village set up.

"Can't," Harry said as he added a thatched roof made of bark to a round stone "house." "Aunt Petunia says I've been spending too much time at your house. It's impolite, she says."

"That's dumb," Draco said as he placed his little stick knight in the ground. A blue jay feather had joined the errant knight as his banner and coat of arms. "Wish we had some paint or something."

"Hmm," Harry agreed as he finished off several more little stone houses. "We need something for the treasure," he said as he began casting about the ground for something.

"How 'bout this?" Draco asked as he fished in his pocket and withdrew the small stone Harry had given him.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. "You still have that? You have it with you?"

Draco snorted. "Of course. You gave it to me and it's genuine pirate treasure."

Harry felt the flush of true affection for his friend. He smiled. "Yeah. 'Course."

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia's nasally voice cut through the distance.

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's like she doesn't know your name or, something," he joked.

Harry smiled weakly. "Yeah. Or something."

"Looks like we'll have to play fairy castle tomorrow," Draco said, not anxious to get to his feet and go home.

"Yeah," Harry said, feeling glum.

"Boy! Where are you?" Aunt Petunia called again.

"I've got to go, Draco."

Draco nodded. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah. See you," Harry said as he trotted off to his house.

Draco heard Harry's aunt say something. She sounded cross, but when did she ever sound anything but? The back door to Mr. Culpepper's—no, Harry's house, now—slammed shut. Draco got to his feet and trudged home, letting his own back door slam closed behind him.

"Draco, what have I told you about the door," Narcissa said without looking up from the newspaper.

"Sorry, mum." Draco flopped into one of the kitchen chairs.

Narcissa looked up. "Why so sad, dragon?"

"Harry can't spend the night."

"Oh." Narcissa hesitated. Harry had practically lived with them over the course of a month. He was such a delight that Narcissa hadn't minded in the least, but she did think it was a good idea for the boys to spend some time apart. Otherwise, they would tire of each other eventually. "Well, I'm sure you'll get to play tomorrow. And, the Dursleys have invited us to dinner tomorrow. You'll get to see him then as well."

Draco's face lit up. He'd yet to go into Harry's house. He couldn't wait to see his room and play with all of Harry's toys. He must have very unusual ones, Draco had decided, because he always seemed awed by Draco's mundane things.

"We'll have to stop by Mark and Spencer and pick something up for Dudley," Narcissa said as she continued reading the paper.

"Why would we do that?"

"Mrs. Dursley let it slip that it was Dudley's birthday last week and that they hadn't had a party for him, as he didn't know anyone."

"Well, we should get something for Harry, too," Draco demanded.

Narcissa looked up from the paper with a questioning expression.

"Remember? He said that his birthday was soon. Maybe the Dursleys are having a surprise party for both of them."

"Maybe so. Well, then, my little dragon, what do you propose we get them?"

Draco screwed his face up in thought. "Dudley doesn't seem to do very much. A book of adventure stories?"

"All right. And for Harry?"

Draco thought, and thought, and thought. "I know! He really likes my bath toys. Maybe his own set of little boats? Oh! And, we can get soap crayons and all sorts of other things."

Narcissa smiled. "Perfect."

Harry stood in the kitchen and watched as his aunt paced to and fro. She'd said hardly a word since calling him in from playing with Draco. She started every time she heard Uncle Vernon lumber about upstairs. Eventually, she thrust a piece of paper in Harry's hands. It was a list of chores. Inside chores. Harry was surprised. It was a rare occasion when Harry Potter was permitted to touch the Dursleys' "precious" things.

"The Malfoys are coming for dinner tomorrow night. To help celebrate Dudley's birthday."

Harry refrained from pointing out that his birthday had come and gone with nary a whisper.

"This house is to be spotless if you want to even think about being allowed to attend."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry murmured automatically, as he scanned the list.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Get to work!" she snapped before leaving the kitchen.

Harry sighed and got to work.

Several hours later, Harry was serving dinner. He was bone weary, but had come close to finishing everything on his list. He'd seen Aunt Petunia washing some of his "good" clothes, so he was sure he was going to get to join the dinner the next night.

"What do we know about these Malfoy people?" Uncle Vernon asked, as he stabbed his roast pork with his knife and fork.

"They are wealthy and, for the most part, very well regarded. It will be good for us to curry favor with them."

"Fa," Vernon said, wishing the dinner wasn't going to take place. "They can't be right in the head to have taken up with this little blighter," Vernon said, his head jerking back towards Harry.

Harry's face colored with anger. Not on his behalf, but on behalf of Draco and Mrs. Malfoy. They were kind and nice, they made sure he had plenty to eat, they didn't yell at him, and they made him feel happy.

"Vernon," Petunia snapped. "Lapse of judgment, I'm sure. They just haven't had a chance to really get to know our sweet little Dudders. Once they do, the boy will be forgotten."

It didn't occur to Harry to be upset that they were talking about him as if he didn't exist.

"Fine, fine, fine," Vernon groused. "You know, Pet, I've heard things about that family. Did you know Narcissa's husband was brutally murdered just a year ago? Most people think he just got caught in the crossfire. Sounds fishy to me. I bet he was in deep with those crooked men."

Harry's hands stilled. He kept his head down, waiting to see what would be said next.

"Yes, I heard something about that," Petunia said archly. "If it's true, I'm sure Narcissa was involved. One can only imagine how she escaped prosecution."

Vernon chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure we can imagine."

Harry didn't know what that chuckle meant, but he knew the tone of voice. His aunt and uncle both were saying mean things about Mrs. Malfoy. An uncharacteristic flash of fire bubbled up in him—a sense of loyalty to the Malfoys that he'd never felt for the Dursleys. Before he could stop himself, he screamed, "That's not true! Don't say such things!"

Vernon turned with such startling alacrity, that Harry was sure it hadn't been real. His uncle's face began turning that particular shade of purple that always spelled trouble for Harry. Harry cowered, wishing beyond hope that he could take back his words. Even though he meant them.

"What did you say, boy?" Vernon growled as his hands curled into fists, clenching and unclenching.

"I—I . . . nothing. I—I said nothing, sir," Harry whispered, feeling very small.

Vernon stood, shaking off Petunia's weak protests. He charged up to Harry, who had backed into the wall. "Who gave you permission to speak? No one, that's who. And, how DARE you speak such filth. Think you're better than me, do you?"

"No, no sir. No I don't. I'm sorry," Harry said pleading, wishing—desperately wishing—that Uncle Vernon would overlook his lapse.

"Mind your place, boy. You seem to be forgetting it lately. Is it because the neighbors feel sorry for you and give you their scraps? Is that it? You need to be reminded. Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Vernon roared as he took Harry by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could fly away or disappear. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Harry said over and over as tears slipped from his closed eyes.

"Not yet, but you will be," Vernon whispered.

Harry took one shuddering sob, and closed his eyes even tighter.

Draco was up, washed, and out the door the next morning in record time. He scrambled to his backyard and was relieved to see that their fairy village hadn't collapsed overnight. He put more knights in the ground and fashioned a princess out of a small stone, twine and soft fern while he waited for Harry.

The sun moved a bit higher in the sky and still Harry hadn't come. Draco made a few more stone houses and fortified the castle while he waited. Still, Harry didn't come. Draco shifted nervously, wondering why his friend hadn't come to play. He sighed and decided to go to the Dursleys' door and ask for Harry. Maybe he'd forgotten?

Draco trudged to the door and knocked. A few moments later, Harry's aunt came to the door.

"Harry can't play today," she said sharply, scanning the street.

"Why?" Draco asked, full of the impetuousness of youth.

Petunia was startled by the question. She looked down into Draco's earnest face and sighed. "He's sick. He's told you about getting sick, right?" she asked with an edge of desperation in her voice.

"Yes, ma'am. Can I go up to his room, then? I promised I'd play with him, even if he was sick."

"Er, no, he's sleeping. He probably won't want visitors for a few days."

"Will he be okay? What about dinner? His surprise party?"

"What are you talking about, boy?"

"Dinner tonight. Isn't it for Dudley and Harry's birthdays?"

Petunia blanched. "Is that what the b—Harry told you?" she asked through clenched teeth.

Not noticing Petunia's demeanor, Draco shook his head no. "I just figured, since I know his birthday's soon."

Petunia relaxed a bit. "No, the dinner is not for Harry's birthday. Though it is for Dudley." Petunia hesitated. "Why don't you play with Dudley today, Draco? Harry won't feel up to playing for a few days I think."

Draco sighed. He really didn't want to play with Dudley. He didn't like Dudley. But, maybe Dudley could tell him more about Harry. "Sure," he said.

Petunia beamed. "Wonderful! He'll be right over," she said as she closed the door and screeched for "Dudders."

Playing with Dudley was awful, Draco decided. He'd destroyed his and Harry's fairy village within a few moments of seeing it, he refused to look for treasure or spy on Mrs. Figg's cats, and had demanded snacks from his mum.

"So, what's it like living with Harry?" Draco asked, hoping to salvage the afternoon.

Dudley shot him a dirty look as he took another large bite of his sandwich. His third. "What you care about him for," he mumbled in between bites.

"He's my friend," Draco said, finding Dudley horribly rude and common.

Dudley shrugged his shoulders. "He's a little freak," he said, as if that explained everything. "Don't you have anything fun around here? Do you have a video game system?"

"Er, no," Draco said.

Dudley snorted. "Not so fancy, then, are you? I've got two game systems, a computer, and loads of games," Dudley said as if these were impressive things. Draco was not impressed.

"Why would you want to spend all day inside playing computer games when you could be outside exploring?" Draco asked, his nose wrinkling in disgust as a glob of mayonnaise from Dudley's sandwich landed on the edge of the kitchen table.

Dudley snorted and said something that sounded like, "You're just a freak like him."

Narcissa walked into the kitchen, ready to be quit of Dudley Dursley. He was loud, inconsiderate and obnoxious. How he and Harry belonged to the same family, Narcissa would never know. "Dudley? I think it's time you went home to get ready for dinner."

Dudley shrugged, dropped what remained of his sandwich on the table and got up without so much as a goodbye. When he'd left Draco asked, "Do we have to go tonight? Harry won't be there and I'm not sitting next to that whale."

"Draco," Narcissa warned, though she found it hard to put anything behind it. "Come on, love, let's get ready for dinner. It's one night, and maybe you can sneak upstairs and visit for a moment with Harry. I bet he'd like that."

Draco brightened. "Okay," he said as he ran to his room to change.

At precisely seven o'clock, the Dursleys' doorbell rang. As practiced, Dudley opened the door and smiled at Mrs. Malfoy with patent falseness. "Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy." His piggish little eyes roved over the brightly wrapped gifts. "Can I take those for you?" he asked.

"Thank you, Dudley," Narcissa said with an ingratiating smile. Appearances were everything. She knew how these games were played. "This one," she said pointing to the larger of the two packages, "is for Harry. I understand he has a birthday sometime soon as well?"

Petunia stepped in when she saw the murderous expression on her son's face at the thought of Harry getting a larger present. "Why thank you, Narcissa. I'm sure Harry will enjoy opening this when he's feeling better."

"Yes, Draco mentioned he was sick. Poor thing. How is he feeling?"

Petunia and Vernon exchanged glances. "Better. But, we've been through this a number of times. It will be a few days yet before he's able to play again."

Narcissa hesitated a moment before turning to Draco. "You know Draco, of course."

"Hello," Draco said, flashing the charming little smile he'd learned from his mother.

"Well, shall we?" Petunia said, as she gestured towards the living room.

After everyone was settled, the topic once again turned to Harry. Much to the Dursleys' disgust.

"Harry told us he often gets sick. I, well I, I don't mean to be rude, but what precisely is wrong with him?" Narcissa asked, wanting to get to the bottom of the little mystery named Harry Potter.

"Suppressed immune system," Petunia said tightly. "Born premature. Mother refused to breastfeed," Petunia sniffed. "And now, what is there to show for it? A sickly little thing."

Narcissa's mouth flopped open, and she blushed in embarrassment. "I apologize, I didn't mean to intrude."

"No, no," Petunia said, her gaze softening. "It is I who should apologize. Forgive me, Narcissa. It is a . . . difficult subject. One that causes our family much pain. Ha--Harry especially. He really doesn't like to talk about it. Wants to be seen as normal," Petunia said bracingly.

"Of course," Narcissa said, taking in the pained expressions on the Dursleys' faces. Of course, she mistook their expressions for ones of concern rather than what they truly were. "Well, we certainly won't ask Harry about it, will we Draco?" Narcissa asked.

Draco nodded. He didn't want to bring up anything that made Harry feel awkward or shy. He didn't like feeling awkward.

The conversation turned to much more pleasant matters. The adults chatted for quite awhile about inconsequential things while Dudley eyed the wrapped package with his name on it. Draco daydreamed that he and Harry were knights fighting an epic battle against the evil king, Dastardly Dudders. A timer dinged in the kitchen.

"Oh, that would be the roast," Petunia said.

"Let me help," Narcissa said. She turned and winked at Draco. "Draco, why don't you use the washroom before dinner. We have a few minutes, yet. Right, Petunia?"

"Yes of course," Petunia answered. "The washroom is up the stairs to the right."

Draco nodded and thanked Petunia before scrambling up the stairs. When he was sure everyone had migrated to the kitchen, he began exploring. "Harry," he stage whispered. "Harry? Where are you?" No response. Draco sighed and began opening all of the doors. The first three were two bedrooms and the washroom. He sneered at the pigsty that was Dudley's room. Another door led to a linen cupboard, and another led to a sterile, little-used bedroom that Dudley assumed was for guests. That left one door at the very end of the hall. When he opened it, he heard a soft gasp. "Harry? Is that you?"

"Draco? What are you doing here?" Harry whispered.

Draco stepped into the darkened room, momentarily blinded. He fumbled for a light switch on the wall.

"Don't!" Harry called out. "Er, the light hurts my eyes."

"Okay," Draco said, feeling his way along the walls. He heard the faint rustle of sheets and bumped into what felt like the bed. His outstretched hands touched the wall. "Cor, this is a small room, Harry. And, where's your window?"

Harry shifted on the bed and sighed. "I don't like windows," he lied, "and I thought this was a neat little room. Umm . . . it's like our tent, you know?"

Draco smiled, though Harry couldn't see it. "Brilliant," he said before plopping down at the foot of the bed. "Is it okay that I sit here?" he asked.

"Yeah, okay," Harry said softly.

"So, what's wrong with you?" Draco asked.

The sheets rustled again. "I—I just get sick. Like I said."

Draco bit his lip, thinking back to the promise he'd just made to his mother and the Dursleys, desperately wishing to break it. "Your aunt said it will be a few days before you can play again."

"Hmm," Harry said. "Yeah, it usually takes me a few days until I'm better."

"She said you were sleeping all day."

Harry hesitated. "Hmm," he said again.

"Are you tired now?" Draco asked, hoping that the answer was no. He really didn't want to have to go back downstairs.

"Yeah, sort of," Harry murmured, not really tired, but in no mood for any additional punishment if Draco was found in his room.

Silence passed between the two friends.

"We brought you a birthday gift!" Draco said, remembering the brightly wrapped package downstairs.

"You did? Really? . . . Thank you."

"It's boats and soap crayons and other fun things for the bath," Draco blurted. He couldn't see it, but Harry smiled.

"Perfect," Harry said, knowing that he'd never see the little boats or any of the other things. But, it was enough that Draco had thought of that; had thought of him.

"I know you can't play or anything, but is there anything we can do that's fun? Before I have to go back downstairs, I mean," Draco asked.

The sheets rustled and Draco could tell that Harry was now lying down fully. "Tell me a story," Harry asked, knowing that was Draco's favorite thing to do. And, tonight, a fairy story was just the thing he needed.

Draco decided to tell the best fairy story he could think of—anything to make Harry feel better. "Well, did I ever tell you about old Mr. Culpepper?"

"No, you didn't."

"Well," Draco began, "he used to live in this very house, you see. He was a pirate in disguise. Always wandering around the yard, digging holes at all times of the day and night. Getting strange packages in the mail. Well, one day, Mr. Culpepper . . ." and Draco continued to spin his tale until he was sure Harry had fallen asleep.


	4. If You Lead, I Shall Follow

**A/N: **Thank you again for so many wonderful, wonderful reviews. The author's cup is definitely overflowing. Thank you.

So many good questions were posed after the last chapter. Let me answer a few. Yes, the Malfoys will discover the abuse, but please remember that human beings are flawed, flawed creatures. Severus makes his appearance in the next chapter. There will likely be about seven or eight chapters with the boys being little, then a fast forward to them at fifteen. If you have specific questions or a burning desire to know something, always feel free to email me at Thanks!

A special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend. Good lord, she catches all of my awful little mistakes! She deserves lots and lots of chocolate.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

**CHAPTER 4: IF YOU LEAD, I SHALL FOLLOW**

"I think they're on the move," Draco whispered. He crouched low to the ground, his eyes trained on two of Mrs. Figg's cats.

Behind him, Harry copied his stance and put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing as the two cats flopped over into a beam of sunlight, ready to take yet another nap. They had been following Mrs. Figg's cats around for the last two hours because Draco was sure that they would lead them to where Mrs. Figg was keeping her secrets. So far, the only thing the cats had done was take naps in various sunbeam laden patches of grass. Harry sighed as Draco sat, fully prepared to wait for the cats to lead them. Harry wasn't keen on this particular game. But, Draco liked it and that was enough for Harry.

It had been almost three months since Harry had met Draco. In that time, Harry's life had changed dramatically in many ways, but remained horrifyingly the same in others. He'd been "sick" a few more times. Draco never asked questions and Harry never volunteered information. Draco hadn't been permitted to visit and the Malfoys hadn't come to dinner again, either. Harry never saw the brightly wrapped package from the Malfoys but made a point to thank them both the next time he saw them—spinning his own tales at games he'd played and pictures he'd drawn with the soap crayons.

Nevertheless, Harry had been able to spend most of his free time with the Malfoys. There had been many more tents, chocolate pancake breakfasts, fairy forts and stories. Harry sometimes dreamed that he lived with Draco and Mrs. Malfoy—that they were his family. That he belonged to them instead of the Dursleys.

"Are you ready for school?" Draco asked, while continuing to stare at the lazy cats.

"Huh? Oh. Er, yeah. Do you think we'll be in the same class?"

Draco shrugged, still not taking his eyes off the two cats. "Should be. It's a small school. It's why Mum moved here—I don't have to board and she likes the teachers."

Harry nodded. He was nervous about school starting—he'd never had a good experience at school. Dudley had always ruined it for him. And, surely Draco had more friends than just Harry. Would school make things different? Would Draco want to be friends any more? He bit his lip and looked down at his hands. "How come you don't play with other kids," he said softly. He'd wondered this all summer. Now seemed like the right time to ask.

Draco turned his startled gaze to Harry, missing the fact that the cats were stirring—the likely beginnings of their inevitable move to yet another sun-warmed patch of grass. "What?" he said. "Why would I want to play with other kids when I have you? Besides, my other friends don't like to play the things we do."

Harry blushed and looked down further. He felt awkward all of a sudden. "It's just that, I mean, there'll be loads of other kids at school, I suspect. I just figured you had a lot of friends."

Draco was silent for a moment. "Yeah, so. I like playing with you, though. I'll play with them at school."

Harry nodded, still biting his lip, telling himself that he hadn't winced when Draco talked about playing with other kids at school. The prospect of going back to school dimmed.

"Dudley's not in our year, is he?" Draco asked.

"No. He's year five."

"Too bad."

"What?" Harry asked, panicked. "Why?" he asked, as the idea of school with Draco and Dudley became dimmer still.

Draco swiveled his head around and gave Harry a curious look. "We won't be able to play as many pranks on him."

Harry looked down. "I don't much like playing pranks," he said, remembering all of the horrible ones Dudley and his merry band of heathens had played on him.

Draco grinned. "That's just because you haven't played any of them with me! Besides, it's not like he'd be able to catch us. Can you imagine? The whale running after us," Draco said with a snort and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Despite himself, Harry couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. He felt a surge of kinship with Draco in that moment. Harry wished again that he lived with the Malfoys, that they were his family.

"They're on the move!" Draco announced in a loud whisper.

Harry did laugh then as he and Draco resumed their stealthy crouch and followed Mrs. Figg's cats to their next napping spot.

"Boy!" Aunt Petunia snapped from the foot of the stairs. "I'll not wait another moment for you," she said as she walked out the door, Dudley trailing behind her.

It was the first day of school and Harry was trying, in vain, to make his hair lay flat and his jumper and pants seem less ill-fitting. Exasperated, he threw down the comb and dashed down the stairs, grabbing his little knapsack along the way. "Coming!" he yelled as he trotted out the door and ran for the car that was creeping out of the drive. He tumbled into the back seat just before Petunia pulled out. Still sprawled in the backseat and trying to get his bearings, Harry knocked into Dudley on a sharp turn.

Dudley made a sound of disgust as he pushed Harry away from him. "Why can't he walk?" he demanded.

"It's too far," Petunia snarled.

Harry didn't make a sound. He was not looking forward to school. He'd never had a good experience. Dudley had always seen to that. He looked at his uniform and compared it to Dudley's brand new one. He tugged self-consciously at the frayed hems of his sleeves and pretended not to notice how shabby his faded, worn trousers looked next to Dudley's crisp, new ones. Dudley always took delight in making fun of Harry's hair, his clothes, anything about him that set him apart from others. Anything that gave others an excuse to shun him. It didn't matter that they weren't in the same year. Not to Dudley Dursley.

"We're here," Petunia announced, pulling in front of the impressive gray stone building. The Bennington-Bright school was a parents' dream—no tuition, no boarding, wonderful teachers, small classes and it served all grades, even sixth form.

After getting out of the car, Harry stood back and scanned the grounds looking for Draco as his aunt cooed and doted on Dudley. Dudley sighed, rolled his eyes and pushed her away before lumbering off to find his class. She turned sharply to Harry, her beady eyes narrowed, her lips twisted. Harry almost took another step back. "You listen to me," she hissed. "You'll not cause Dudley any problems if you know what's good for you."

Harry nodded. They went through this every year. He knew the rules. And, more importantly, he knew that the rules didn't really matter. He'd be punished regardless.

Petunia pulled out a folded sheet from her purse. "Give this to the school nurse."

Harry took the note and nodded again, knowing that it spun some tale of sad, little, sickly Harry who undoubtedly would be required to miss loads of school due to his frequent, short illnesses. He sighed. At this rate, he'd never be allowed to play outside. The schools were always concerned he'd overexert himself and get sick and that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would sue. Harry nearly snorted at the thought. They'd probably dance in the living room—something forbidden in the Dursley household—if some fatal injury befell Harry during a school sport mishap.

A bell sounded in the distance. Harry started off, still looking for Draco. There was no cooing or hugging for Harry from Petunia. Only a sharp shove and a muttered, "Daft boy," before she got back into the car and sped away.

Harry made his way to the school nurse, a soft, plump woman by the name of Poppy Pomfrey, or Miss Poppy as she'd asked Harry to call her. She read Petunia's note over several times, looking at Harry critically every few minutes. Harry stood there, bearing the scrutiny without comment.

"What do you have? Do the doctors know?" Miss Poppy asked in a professionally clipped tone.

Harry shook his head. "I've always gotten sick," he murmured. "Sup—suppressed im-gen-uity, or something," Harry said, trying to remember the words Aunt Petunia often used.

"Suppressed immune system, I think you mean," Miss Poppy chuckled as she continued to scan the note.

"Not surprising, really," she said after laying the note down and gesturing for Harry to sit on her examination table. "You're thin as a rail and quite short for your age. Quite a delicate little thing, aren't you," she murmured as she checked his pulse and made him take deep breaths while listening with her stethoscope.

Harry scowled at the notion that he was delicate. Miss Poppy had no idea the kind of work he did in the Dursleys' garden and that he was nearly starved most days.

"Oh, I don't mean anything by it, dearie," Miss Poppy said with a short bark of laughter and a ruffle to Harry's disobedient hair.

Harry sighed and tried once again to flatten his hair while Miss Poppy continued to chat.

"I just mean that we'll need to make sure that you're careful. No sports for you, lad," she said as she turned away and scribbled something in a bright yellow folder marked "Harry Potter." Harry noticed there was a bright orange sticker on the front of it as well.

"Any allergies?"

Harry looked at her blankly for a moment before shaking his head "no." He had no idea if he had any allergies, but "no" seemed to be the best answer. Less questions that way.

"That's surprising," Miss Poppy said as she turned again and made more scribbled notes in Harry's bright yellow file.

"Come on then, off to class. I'll need to speak to your teacher," Miss Poppy said, helping Harry down from the table.

It was a short walk to his class, but every step was a struggle. Harry doubted he'd be able to slip in unnoticed. Classes had already started, which meant he'd be standing there while all of the other kids in his class stared at him, made judgments about him. All too soon, he and Miss Poppy were standing at the door to Mrs. Lopp's year four class. Mrs. Lopp was a kind-faced woman. She was small, open, soft-spoken, and fond of bright colors and, as Harry soon learned, exclamatory phrases.

"Mrs. Lopp," Miss Poppy began. "I've brought you your newest student, Mr. Harry Potter. I'd like to have a word with you for a moment, if I may."

"Why of course, Madam Pomfrey," Mrs. Lopp said to Miss Poppy before turning her attention to Harry. She gave him a warm smile. "Welcome, Harry. Excellent to meet you! Come inside. We'll get you sorted out in just a moment."

Harry nodded and crept into the room, stopping just to the right of the door. As predicted, twenty pairs of eyes looked up at him and stared. Harry's gaze shot to the floor, a horrible blush sped across his cheeks. He could feel them staring. He heard the faint stirring of whispers. He tugged at his sleeves and pulled his knapsack closer to him. He was sure that the other students were sneering at him, making fun of him. He hazarded a quick look up and saw Draco sitting in the center of the room, surrounded by his friends. But, at that moment, Draco wasn't paying any attention to them. He was waving wildly at Harry and grinning ear to ear. Harry felt a curious weight lift from him. He smiled at Draco, relieved to finally have seen his friend, before returning his gaze to the floor. After what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Lopp escorted Miss Poppy from the classroom and introduced Harry.

"Now class, we have a new student. This is Harry Potter. This is his first year at Bennington-Bright and I'm sure all of you will do your best to make him feel comfortable."

"Yes, Mrs. Lopp," the class intoned together.

"Splendid!" Mrs. Lopp said to the class with a beaming smile. "Harry, why don't you find a seat. You can look on with a neighbor until I can get your books for you."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmured, his gaze darting about for a seat. The only open seat was all the way on the left side of the classroom—a dreadfully long way from Draco. Disheartened, Harry trudged to his new seat.

"You can look on with me," a soft voice said as Harry got situated.

He looked up into a pair of warm, brown eyes. "Thanks," he whispered, feeling better about his new school by the minute.

"I'm Padma," she said.

"Harry," he replied with a shy smile.

The morning's lessons flew by and soon the students were dismissed for lunch. Harry watched as Draco left the room, surrounded by friends, all of whom were laughing and telling stories. Draco didn't seem to notice that Harry wasn't there with him as they left for the lunchroom. Even Padma pranced away for lunch without a glance back at Harry. He sighed, fished out his meager lunch from his knapsack and started to leave. Mrs. Lopp called him back.

"Harry? May I see you for a moment?"

Harry nodded and slowly made his way to his new teacher's desk.

"Madam Pomfrey told me that you often get sick. You poor little dear! Well, nothing's for it, I suppose. Anyway, we'll need to work out a way to get your assignments to you."

Harry hesitated. "Draco Malfoy is my next door neighbor."

"Wonderful! I was worried that we'd have to make some sort of special arrangements. If it seems as though you can work ahead in any subject, we'll do that as well. That way you won't have to do as much catch-up work."

Harry nodded.

"Also, Madam Pomfrey thinks it wise that you not play sports during the recess period. I can get you special permission to take library books outside, if you think you'd prefer that over sitting or, perhaps, playing on the swings."

"I'd like that. About the books, I mean," Harry said, surprised that he was being given such a nice alternative.

"Splendid! Do you have any favorite kinds of books, Harry?"

Harry thought about that and shrugged. He just liked books—mostly because he wasn't allowed to touch the ones at the Dursleys' house. "I like plants," he said, wondering if there were any big picture books of plants like he'd seen at the bookshop on occasion.

"Brilliant, Harry! I'll see what I can find. I see you have your lunch," Mrs. Lopp said, making a gesture to Harry's small paper sack. "Year four students usually have their choice between juice or water, but Madam Pomfrey has requested that you get milk with every lunch."

Harry sighed. He wished he didn't have to drink milk like the itty-bitty first and second years. "All right."

"Excellent! Off you go, then. Go make some nice new friends, Harry."

Harry nodded, resisting the urge to snort at such a ridiculous proposition.

The lunchroom was loud and chaotic. It took a few moments for Harry to realize that the tables were divided by year. He spied some of his classmates at a far table and slowly walked over. Draco sat in the middle, surrounded by friends, all of whom hung on every word as he regaled them with tales of grand adventures. Harry smiled, knowing that he'd heard these stories before anyone else, that he had participated in some. He moved to sit at the far corner when a voice stopped him.

"Harry? Why are you doing down there?"

Harry turned. It was Draco.

"Move Crabbe," Draco said haughtily to the blobby boy next to him. Crabbe grunted and shuffled over a few feet while Draco patted the seat next to him. "Come on, Harry. You sit here."

Harry noticed that there was an equally hulking boy on the other side of Draco. Both he and Crabbe were eyeing Harry as if assessing whether he was a threat to Draco.

Harry made his way over, his nerves almost undoing him. "Hullo," he mumbled as he sat down and placed his small paper sack in front of him. All around him his classmates had beautiful sandwiches and crisps in colorful bags. He saw biscuits and juice and fruit salads. There were fancy lunch boxes and sacks with embroidered names and embellishments. Harry's hands curled around his own little used paper sack as he hesitantly withdrew his half-sandwich and bruised apple.

"This is Harry, everyone," Draco announced. "The one I've been telling you about!"

Harry took a sharp breath, afraid of what was to come. He was pleasantly surprised when he was greeted to a variety of "Hellos," "Hiya, Harrys" and "Nice to meet yous." To his left, Crabbe merely grunted, but, all in all, it sounded like a very welcoming grunt.

"Hullo," Harry said again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm.

"Is it true that you and Draco found pirate's treasure?" asked Pansy Parkinson. She had a squashed little nose and straw-like blonde hair

Before Harry could answer, someone else asked a question.

"Hey Harry, is it true that you spent almost every night at Draco's house this summer? That you slept in tents?" asked a pale, freckled-faced boy named Seamus Finnegan.

Again before Harry could answer, someone else joined the chatter with more questions. Harry blushed and nodded his head—in answer to all their questions.

"Cool," one said. "Brilliant," said another.

Harry couldn't believe it.

"Harry even saved me from an evil snake!" Draco began. "It had fangs as long as toothpicks and it came straight for me! But Harry jumped in front of it and scooped it up with a shovel and flung it away!"

The assembled students gasped at Harry's daring.

Harry rolled his eyes and blushed even more. "It was just a small garden snake," Harry mumbled.

"Nonsense," Draco sniffed—as if copying something he'd seen an adult do—"that snake would have eaten me if it weren't for Harry!"

Harry was almost dizzy from the smiles and looks of appreciation from Draco's friends.

But, that came to a crashing halt moments later. First, the school lunch matron plopped down a small container of milk in front of him after confirming he was Harry Potter. Second, Dudley happened by.

"Oi! Look at the little freak," he said jabbing his finger in Harry's direction and sniggering with his new friends. Dudley spotted the milk. "Aren't you a year four, you little freak? Ahh, what's the matter, does itty bitty little Harry still have to drink milky-wilky?" Dudley said in an exaggerated baby voice.

Harry looked down and bit his lip.

"Cor, you're a sight. Look at you—your uniform is all tatty, it doesn't fit right. And your hair. What's in there—a bee's nest?" Dudley said, egged on by his smarmy little friends.

Draco was distressed at seeing his little lion so sad. "You shut up," he demanded while Harry hissed, "Shove off, Dudley."

Dudley turned to Draco and in a miscalculation of epic proportions, sealed his fate with one careless sentence. "You're just a freak like him," he said with menace.

Pansy gasped and jumped up from the table as did Crabbe.

As Dudley and his two friends continued to taunt and make fun of Harry, and as Draco fumed and fussed like a little tow-headed demon while Harry tried to get everyone to stop arguing, Pansy and Crabbe came back, three much older children trailing behind them.

"Everything okay, Draco?" A blond haired boy asked.

"No. It's not," Draco said. "This blob is bothering us," he snapped, his finger pointing at Dudley.

"Watch your mouth, you little freak," Dudley said as he knocked into Harry to get at Draco.

Dudley was wrenched back by the two other boys who turned out to be the older brothers of Crabbe and the other hulking mass in Harry's class—Gregory Goyle. The older boys—year eights, as Harry later learned—grunted and sneered. "Shut it, you," Goyle said with a vicious jab towards Dudley's midsection.

"Oof," Dudley said, while his "friends" slowly backed away.

The blond haired boy, Michael Parkinson, strode over to Dudley. "Oi! Dursley, already making a name for yourself, I see. Wasn't it you that tripped that little year one this morning and stole his candy? And now, roughing up year fours? Rather bad form don't you think, mate?" Michael looked him over appraisingly. "Though, I doubt your fat arse could go after anything bigger."

Pansy, Seamus and Draco sniggered. Harry just wished desperately that this whole event would soon end. He didn't need anyone making trouble for him.

"You see that little boy there," Michael said, pointing to Draco. "He's a friend of the family. Any friend of his is also a friend of the family. Leave them alone or you'll answer to us."

"Let me go," Dudley heaved as he tried to twist away. "I don't care about your little blond friend, but you can't keep me from my stupid little cousin," he sneered.

Michael turned to Harry. He stared at him for a few moments before his started darting back and forth between Harry and Dudley, lingering on their differences. They focused too on how close Draco was standing next to Harry, as if to protect him. It was obvious to Michael that Dudley terrorized his younger, smaller cousin. It was equally obvious that Draco Malfoy cared for this little bedraggled boy. The Parkinsons owed their lives to the Malfoys and if this kid was important to Draco, then he was important to Michael as well. "Hey kid, this blob says you're his cousin, that true?"

Harry swallowed hard and nodded.

Michael winked at him. "Too bad. Well, they say there's always one freak in the family—sorry you've got to see yours everyday."

Harry almost laughed as Dudley turned a spectacular shade of purple at the notion that he was the freak. The laughter died, though, as Dudley twisted hard, got free and lunged for Harry.

Harry gasped and closed his eyes tight, waiting for the inevitable. When nothing happened, he opened one eye and then both shot open at the sight before him. Little Crabbe and Goyle were now standing in front of him—guarding him. Draco was on his feet, his little hands balled into tight fists. Michael, big Crabbe and Goyle looked ready to defend Mrs. Lopp's entire class and Pansy Parkinson had her arms crossed, a smug expression on her face. But, by the far the best thing was seeing Dudley floundering around, whimpering as the lunchroom matron snagged him by his ear. She'd walked in just as Dudley had lunged for Harry and had immediately taken him to task for "attacking" students. Harry knew he'd pay for it later—privately, behind closed doors—but he wouldn't trade the moment for anything.

Michael Parkinson stopped the school matron and explained with haste that Dudley was Harry's cousin and had been showing Harry a few moves to defend himself.

Harry was nearly beside himself. Was this all an elaborate ruse? Was this when they all turned on him en masse?

Michael smiled at the lunchroom matron, waiting until she'd walked away. The minute she'd left the room, he made a motion to the elder Crabbe and Goyle before turning and winking at Harry again.

Harry was absolutely bewildered.

Crabbe and Goyle grabbed Dudley, twisting his arms behind him painfully. Michael leaned in close, as if to whisper, but he made sure everyone in Mrs. Lopp's class heard him. "I'd say you owe me a favor, Dursley," he spat.

Dudley whimpered and blubbered and nodded his head up and down. He looked to be convulsing.

Michael smiled viciously. "Right, then, here's the thing, Dursley. News travels fast. That year one you messed with? His brother is a year nine—I know him. Well. Also, my family is quite close to the headmistress. Not so good for you, Dursley, if the wrong person found out what you've been getting up to, yeah?"

Dudley squeaked and nodded again.

Harry was absolutely mesmerized by what was happening.

"Around here, we keep our mouths shut. If you know what's good for you, you'll do the same."

Dudley went purple and made little choking sounds, his instinct for self-preservation warred with his desire to see Harry punished. At elder Crabbe and Goyle's growls and, funnily enough, the crack of the younger Crabbe and Goyle's knuckles, Dudley's head bobbed up and down once again in assent.

"Good," Michael said. "Let him go."

Crabbe and Goyle did, but with a nice little twist of the wrist so that Dudley fell right onto his fat arse. Everyone started laughing as Dudley tried to get up and run from the room. Dudley Dursley had dug his grave.

"You all right, kid?" Michael asked Harry.

Harry nodded. "Thanks," he said.

Michael smiled and ruffled Harry's hair. "No problem. That's what bigger kids do. Well, what they're supposed to do. Listen, if you—if any of you—have any more problems with that kid, you come straight to me. Understand?"

Michael received a high-pitched chorus of "yeses" and a wave of nodding heads in response.

"Good." Michael said before squeezing his sister's shoulder, ruffling Draco's hair and walking away with his two friends.

Draco turned to Harry with a conspiratorial grin. "That was almost as much fun as when Dudley ran away screaming like a girl at the sight of that snake!"

Everyone giggled at that—even Harry—his little sandwich, apple and milk not looking nearly so bad after all.


	5. Meeting the Godfather

**A/N: **A special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend. Good lord, she catches all of my awful little mistakes! (I seem to have an aversion to question marks). She deserves lots and lots of chocolate and heaps of praise.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

**Chapter 5: MEETING The GODFATHER**

The school year passed quickly. In an uncharacteristic display of discretion, Dudley kept his word and didn't say anything to his parents about what had happened on the first day of school. Dudley even left Harry alone for the most part—at home and school. Draco and Mrs. Malfoy spent Christmas with relatives, so Harry and Draco didn't see each other for nearly two weeks. The Christmas holidays were always a stressful time in the Dursley household and Harry usually spent more time in his room than not. This holiday was no exception.

Spring term at the Bennington-Bright school was progressing just as well as the fall term had. Draco and Harry were inseparable and Draco's friends treated him as if he were an extension of Draco. No one made moves to become friends with Harry outside of the specter of Draco's friendship, which was due in part to Harry's overwhelming shyness. That was not to say, of course, that he hadn't had many wonderful moments of frivolity and play. He and Pansy Parkinson found a mutual love of Harry's plant picture books. Harry loved them for the plants, Pansy loved them for the flowers—she claimed to be planning her wedding bouquet already. Harry thought this strange beyond measure and wondered if he would ever understand girls. Pansy thought it odd that he liked plants just because they were plants. In her words, "But, Harry. They don't do anything except grow," she'd said in exasperation one day. Harry had nodded in agreement and said that was exactly why he liked them so.

If the other kids in his class found him odd, they didn't comment on it. Just as they didn't comment on the fact that he read books at recess and frequently missed school. According to Draco, Mrs. Lopp had told the class not to bother Harry about missing school or playing at recess—that he was a "special" little boy that couldn't play like the other children. Harry had nearly laughed at that. Yes, he was special all right—his family told him frequently what a little freak he was.

And now, the traditional Easter break was upon them. The Dursleys had decided to take Dudley to the seaside as a treat for passing his classes. No mention had been made of Harry's near perfect marks. Harry didn't care about going to the seaside. He was spending the week with Draco. He couldn't wait.

Two days before the Dursleys were set to leave, Harry started sniffling and sneezing. Aunt Petunia grabbed him and shook him extra hard at the first sound of his sniffles, telling him to stop his sniffles immediately.

"I'll not have you ruining our holiday, you vicious little beast," she'd said as she shook him hard, causing his head to knock into the wall behind him.

He nodded, held in a sneeze, and ran to his room, shutting the door and falling onto his little cot for a long nap.

The morning the Dursleys left for their trip, Harry woke up feeling tired and hot. His sniffles weren't any better and his head hurt.

"Up. UP, Boy," Aunt Petunia snapped as she rapped her sharp knuckles against the door to Harry's room.

Harry groaned and pulled himself from bed, dressed carefully and finished packing his little knapsack. He trudged down the stairs and found the Dursleys waiting for him, sneering at him.

"Mummy, I want to leave, now!" Dudley groused, put out that they weren't already speeding away to the seaside.

"Soon, Diddums, soon. I just have to take the boy over to the Malfoys' and then we'll leave. Perhaps Daddy can buy you a lemon ice before we leave," Petunia soothed, while staring at Harry with accusing eyes.

"But I don't want a lemon ice. I want a choco-chocolate bomb!" Dudley wailed.

"Fine, fine. Let's go Dudders. We'll get you your chocolate and come back for your mum," said Vernon, guiding Dudley to the car and growling at Harry for distressing his son so.

Harry sighed and continued down the stairs. As soon as he'd stepped off the landing, Petunia snatched him by his upper arm and dragged him from the house at breakneck speed. "You mind your manners, boy," she said in a low growl. "Are you still sniffling?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said in a stuffy voice.

Petunia sighed. "Must you always be so difficult," she spat. Her bony hand curled tighter around Harry's upper arm as she dragged him up the steps to the Draco's house. She knocked on the door with impatience, biting her lip and darting her beady eyes at Harry.

Moments later the door flew open and Harry nearly fell backwards. He gasped. Instead of Mrs. Malfoy or Draco, there was a tall, scary looking man dressed all in black standing at the door. He was scowling. At Harry's surprised gasp, one aristocratic brow arched in disdain while his arms fell into in an elegant fold. "Can I help you?" he asked in a bored drawl.

Petunia, similarly affected by the man's harsh and imposing demeanor, took a moment to find her voice. "Yes, sorry. I'm Petunia Dursley and this is my nephew, Harry Potter. He is supposed to be staying here for the week. There isn't a problem, I hope?" she asked, the desperation clear in her voice. Petunia refused to take Harry along on the family's seaside holiday.

The man stared at her with his beetle black eyes, before turning his gaze to Harry. When Harry sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand without thinking, the man's face contorted in disgust, causing Petunia to grab Harry roughly and admonish him for such boorish behavior.

"I am Severus Snape, Draco's godfather," the man said, cutting off Petunia's tirade. "Narcissa mentioned that another child would be staying with Draco during the holiday. Unfortunately, she was called away on family business for a few days. I will be looking after the boys during that time."

Harry gulped in fear while Petunia nearly fainted in gratitude. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," she said. "You'll have to excuse Harry. He's an ill-mannered little thing. You're kind to take him."

Severus's eyebrow arched again. "Indeed, Madame? Ill-mannered, you say? My, what could that possibly say about you?" he drawled.

Petunia blinked as she struggled to determine whether she'd just been insulted.

Harry sniffled again, not daring to raise his hand as he had before.

"The boy is sniffling. Why is he sniffling?" Severus asked with asperity.

Petunia shot yet another dark glare at Harry. "Allergies," she ground out, daring Harry to contradict her.

"I see," Severus said. "Well, come in boy, Draco is no doubt nearly beside himself wondering where you are."

"Thank you sir," Harry murmured as he made his way around Severus and ran up the stairs to Draco's room.

"Harry!" Draco cried, as he scrambled to his feet. He was watching a movie, Harry noticed. Sitting and watching a movie, cuddled with a blanket, sounded like a grand idea to Harry.

"What's the movie?" Harry asked, as he sniffled once again.

"Huh? Oh, Aladdin," he said as he grabbed Harry's hand. "Come on! It's been ages since we played outside!"

Harry resisted and pulled his hand away. "No it hasn't," he said a bit sharply. "We built a fort just last week."

Draco turned, his mouth opened in surprise. Harry never contradicted him. "Last week was ages ago," he said, thinking that Harry had simply misunderstood.

"I—I was hoping we could watch the film," Harry said, making a vague gesture towards the frozen image of a blue genie on the telly. "I've always wanted to see, er, Aladdin."

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. "We can do that later. Come on!" he commanded, grabbing Harry's hand and dragging him down the stairs.

Harry sighed and, like always, went along with what Draco wanted to do. They made it to the kitchen before Severus Snape's dark, menacing voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

Draco stopped mid-stride and turned, pulling Harry around with him.

Severus sat at the kitchen table. He had a number of books open as well as a small tablet in which he'd been jotting notes. Harry thought he saw the vague outlines of a leaf in one of the notes. He stepped forward to get a better look.

Draco, on the other hand, let go a put-upon sigh. "We're going outside, Uncle Severus. To play."

"Where are your jackets? It struck me as rather chilly outside. I'll not be tending to sick little boys who were too dim to wear appropriate attire."

"Fine, fine," Draco said, stomping about in the mudroom, searching for his jacket.

Harry took no notice, his curiosity leading him to puzzle out why Mr. Snape would be drawing pictures of leaves.

"You, boy, where is your jacket?" Severus snapped, a bit unnerved by the staring, scruffy little boy in front of him. When Harry made no indication that he'd heard him, Severus sighed in exasperation and leaned over to touch Harry's shoulder. With a slight tap, he again asked Harry about his jacket.

Startled by the touch, Harry staggered backwards. "Sorry, sir," he said with an upturned lilt at the end, making clear he'd not heard whatever Severus had said.

Severus's gaze narrowed. "What is wrong with you, you daft boy? Skittish as a wild rabbit, you are. And, for the final time, where is your jacket? I don't take kindly to scruffy little boys ignoring me."

Harry sniffled. He raised his hand to wipe his nose and stopped midway at the sight of Severus's thunderous gaze. He quickly dropped his hand and began a short burst of sniffles before Severus sighed in exasperation again, stood abruptly and handed Harry a tissue.

"Sorry, sir," Harry mumbled around the tissue as he blew his nose.

"Well?" Severus said, standing in front of Harry, his arms folded, waiting for an answer.

Harry stood there, his mind racing. His mouth flopped open and closed a few times.

"Your jacket. Where is your jacket?" Severus hissed through clenched teeth.

"Oh! Sorry, sir," Harry said for the third time. "I, er, that is, I don't have—I didn't bring one. And, I don't . . . I don't have a key to the Dursleys' . . . I mean to my house."

Severus stared hard at Harry for several long moments. "Draco," he thundered, causing Harry to gasp and take another step backwards.

Seconds later, Draco popped into the kitchen, wearing a fashionable jacket that fit him perfectly. "Yes, Uncle Severus," he said with a flippancy that would have cost Harry a sound cuff to the side of his head had he talked in such a way to his uncle.

"Your friend has forgotten his jacket. I imagine you have one small enough for him. Go and fetch it. Neither of you will go outside without wearing a jacket, is that clear?"

Draco stared at Harry curiously. "Umm, sure. I'll just go see what's in my closet."

Draco lumbered up the stairs, while Severus returned to his books, paying no further mind to Harry. Minutes passed and still Harry stood while Severus read. Harry desperately wanted to know what Severus was reading. His curiosity got the better of him when he saw Severus drawing a new leaf.

"Sir," he said, taking a few tentative steps forward.

Severus looked up, waiting for Harry to speak further. When Harry said nothing else, Severus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you've something to ask, get on with it."

Harry nodded and stepped closer, licking his lips nervously. "I was just wondering, sir. Why are you drawing a picture of a leaf?"

Severus stared at Harry, his gaze calculating. In an abrupt motion (which, Harry was beginning to think were the only kinds of motions Severus Snape made) he turned the drawing towards Harry. "What does this look like to you?"

Harry moved closer and studied the picture. It looked like a leaf he'd seen before. In his picture books at school. "It—it looks like a maple tree leaf. Sir," he added hastily.

"Yes, yes. A maple tree leaf. Points for you," Severus derided, "but what kind of maple?" he asked. His expression was smug. If his students didn't know, then neither would Harry. That failure, of course, would allow Severus to dress him down and permit him a measure of peace and quiet.

Harry hesitated and shot a wary glance at Severus before answering. "It, uh, it looks like an American maple, sir," he whispered.

Severus snatched back the drawing and drew it close to his face before blinking and staring at Harry, his face riddled with incredulity. "How did you know that?" he snapped, his eyes roving over his open books wondering if the answer was on any of the pages.

Harry stepped back. "I'm not allowed to play at recess. I—I like plants and things. I have a special book with lots of plant pictures. I just remember seeing that one. That's all."

Severus regarded the little boy in front him with keener interest. He dissected him as he would one of his saplings. Perhaps this was one of the few children who weren't worthless, vapid cretins. "What do you know of plants, boy? And, why aren't you permitted to play at recess?"

"I—I work in the garden, at home, I mean. I'm responsible for tending to the plants. And recess, I, uh, I get sick a lot and, . . . I get sick a lot," he said, not sure how to answer the strange man's questions.

Draco appeared just then, saving Harry from any more interrogation. "Here. This should fit," he said thrusting a jacket into Harry's hands. "We're going outside now, Uncle Severus."

"Be careful," Severus said, while glancing at Harry. "No roughhousing or running."

Draco rolled his eyes and tugged Harry's hand, pulling him outside.

For the fourth time in the past three hours, Severus was staring out the back door, watching his godson and his little friend, Harry, play. They were playing some sort of game that involved kicking a ball back and forth. Severus saw no utility in it, but he felt that way about most games. The boy, Harry, was looking peaky in Severus's opinion. He was breathing hard, his face was flushed and he seemed far less enthusiastic in his game playing than Draco.

"Come on, Harry! You're not even trying," Draco lamented as the ball slipped past Harry's sluggish foot once again.

A cross look fixed itself on Harry's face and he opened his mouth to say something scathing, of that Severus was sure. Deciding warring little boys was not something he wanted to wrestle with, Severus decided a rest break was in order.

"Put that ridiculous ball away," he muttered to Draco as he strode out in the backyard and pretended to be fascinated by Narcissa's overflowing heaps of thistle.

Draco made a noise of frustration, but trotted after the ball nonetheless.

"Come here, boy," Severus said to Harry as he watched Draco get caught up playing by himself for a bit. Severus meant what he'd said earlier. He'd no intention of playing nursemaid to sickly little boys—especially those he didn't know. No, he would nip this overexertion in the bud and talk with the little boy.

Harry sniffled and pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead. His steps were sluggish as he made his way over to Severus. He stopped several feet away.

Severus bent down and pulled out a small pocketknife. He cut several of the thistles and made a show of staring at each of them, as if trying to puzzle out their secrets. He felt Harry come closer, though the noise from his wheezing would have been enough to alert the hounds down the street. After several long moments, Harry spoke.

"That's thistle, sir," Harry murmured, not sure of anything else to say.

Severus resisted the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes and snap at the boy that he was well aware that he held thistle in his hands. He'd wanted the boy to talk first, after all. So instead, he eyed the boy and said, "Cirsium lecontei."

"What?" Harry said, creeping closer.

"Cirsium lecontei is the proper name for this particular thistle."

"Oh," Harry said, not sure exactly what Mr. Snape had just said. "Cirs—cirs-u-mum la-cor-te," he stammered, trying to copy the words Mr. Snape used.

"No, no, no! Cir-si-um le-con-tei," he pronounced again for Harry.

"Cir-si-um le-cort, sorry, le-con-tei," Harry murmured, staring transfixed at the thistle.

"Better," Severus said as he sat on the ground and motioned for Harry to do the same.

Harry sniffled again and was surprised when a tissue was thrust at him. "Thank you, sir."

"How can you tend to plants with these awful allergies of yours, boy?"

This was the third time Harry had heard the 'allergy' word, and he still wasn't sure what it meant. He shrugged and sought to redirect Mr. Snape's attention. "Why not just call it thistle, sir? Why the funny words?"

"Funny words? Funny words?" Severus repeated, aghast. "Those aren't funny words, boy, I was speaking in Latin." Severus peered down at Harry causing Harry to shrink back. "What are they teaching you at that school?" he muttered.

Harry gulped and nodded, hesitated, shook his head, and then bore the hopeless look of confusion that only Mr. Snape could cause.

Severus shoved one of the thistle stems into Harry's hand. "There are many, many kinds of thistle. The Latin, or 'funny words' as you so disrespectfully called them, make up this particular thistle's botanical name."

Harry cocked his head to the side and let his little mouth flop open. He had no idea what Mr. Snape was talking about.

Severus sighed and tugged at his hair in irritation. "Tell me, boy, how would you tell the difference between this thistle and another?"

"Oh! That's easy," Harry said. "This is pink thistle. I've seen purple and white and--"

"Precisely!" Severus said triumphantly.

"Huh?" Harry asked.

"You know that this thistle is different from other kinds of thistle, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"We can't just go around calling all thistle, thistle. We have to be able to tell the difference. Botanical names let us do that."

Harry nodded again and stared hard at his thistle. "Why not just call it pink thistle, then?"

Severus's lips pursed in a thin, unforgiving line. "Because," he said through clenched teeth, beginning to change his opinion of the boy's intelligence.

Harry thought about that for a minute. It made sense, he thought. He rather liked that the plants had special names. Special secret names. "Okay," he said, accepting Severus's "Because." "What's that there, then?" he said, pointing to the privet hedge separating the Dursleys' backyard from Draco's.

Severus turned and stared at the Japanese privet hedge. Perhaps there was hope for the boy after all. "Ligustrum japonicum," he said with a slight flourish.

Harry giggled. These words were more fun that variegated pittosporum. "Ligus—ligus-trum ja-pon-i-cum," he said, exaggerating each syllable.

"Passable," Severus said.

Draco was beginning to make his way back over. He was scowling, Severus noted, looking as though Severus had taken away his favorite plaything. And, in a sense, Severus had. If Narcissa was to be believed, anyway. "If you'd like, I can show you some other things later, but I think Draco would like to play some more."

Harry beamed. "I'd like that, sir," he said in a soft, respectful voice.

Severus nearly smiled, but stopped himself just in time.


	6. Semper Ubi Sub Ubi

**A/N: **As always, a special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend. Let's all heap praise on Sansa! She deserves it.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

CHAPTER 6: SEMPER UBI SUB UBI 

Severus stared at his two charges during breakfast the next morning. It was raining, which meant no outside playing for the boys and, as a consequence, no work for Severus. His gaze slipped to the clock every so often—he had only a few hours before Narcissa would return. Thank God. Severus had never been happier to be a bachelor than in that moment. Oh, he loved his godson as if he was his own and Draco's little friend wasn't as irritating as he'd imagined. But, Severus knew from experience the amount of trouble cooped-up mischievous little boys could get into. Lord help them all the day Draco Malfoy decided to cause real problems.

For now, though, Severus just wanted to make it through breakfast. The clinking of forks on pottery and Draco's incessant chatter about some woman's damn cats had him teetering on the edge of sanity. He kept snapping and rustling the pages of the morning paper in an effort to get Draco to stop. But thus far, Draco hadn't taken the hint.

Worse still, was the sniffling little friend. While Draco chattered on and on and on Harry said nothing. He nodded every few minutes or made a small "hmmm-ing" sound at the appropriate point in Draco's stories while he sniffled, kept his head down and pushed his eggs around on his plate. Harry took minute nibbles of his toast, his face contorting as he swallowed. Severus was convinced that Harry wasn't suffering from allergies. The child was sick.

"Your mother will be home around lunch, Draco. I suggest we all spend the morning reading."

Harry looked up at that, relieved.

Draco, however, screwed up his little face in anger. "Read? Read? Why would we do that? That's boring," Draco declared. "Make us a tent, Uncle Severus."

"No," Severus said as he rustled his paper and snapped the pages in irritation again.

"We don't want to read," Draco said in exasperation. "Tell him Harry. Tell him we want a tent with fairy lights and squashy pillows."

Harry looked back and forth between Draco and Severus, his eyes wide and nervous.

"Well? Tell him?" Draco demanded again.

"I—I," Harry started. "I'd rather read," he whispered.

It was Draco's turn to look shocked. "What?"

Harry sniffled and pushed back his hair. Severus noticed that Harry's skin was flushed and beaded with slight perspiration.

"I said I'd rather read. I'm tired, Draco," Harry explained.

"Tired? We just got up?"

"I know that," Harry snapped, causing Draco to rear back in surprise. "I'm just not fee—I'm just tired, Draco. Besides, I'd like to look at Mr. Snape's plant books," Harry said, his shy gaze darting at Severus for confirmation that this was acceptable.

Severus inclined his head a fraction at Harry's request. "That sounds wonderful. Draco, why don't you and I put together a puzzle?" Separation at this point was key as far as Severus was concerned. Keep the germs contained. Keep the boys from squabbling. Keep the boys from mischief making. Keep Severus's sanity intact.

Draco warred with himself. He was upset that Harry wanted to read instead of playing with him. But, he liked puzzles and Uncle Severus always let him put the edge pieces together by himself. "Okay," he said, with as much reluctance as he could muster, shooting dirty looks at Harry.

"Why don't you go get the puzzle, Draco. Your friend can help me with the dishes," Severus said, seeing the storm brewing in the cheery little kitchen.

Draco left and Harry started gathering plates, only to be stopped by Severus's hand on his.

"Stay seated, boy. You look like you're going to fall over at any moment."

"Sorry, sir," Harry said.

Severus huffed. "Well, I don't think you intended to get sick. Though, I must say, it is terribly rude to show up at someone's home, infecting them unawares with your sneezes and sniffles."

Harry looked up, surprised that Severus knew he wasn't feeling well. "I'm not sick," he stammered. Though, the sniffle that followed that statement belied it.

Severus folded his arms and arched one of his eyebrows in a pose that Harry was beginning to know quite well.

Cowed, Harry looked down. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled, this time following-up with a cough. He didn't look up when he heard Mr. Snape's exasperated sigh.

It was quiet for several moments and Harry sat there tensed, wondering what would happen. This man reminded him so much of his uncle, with his abrupt movements, his harsh words, his size. But, at the same time, Harry believed that Mr. Snape was nothing like Uncle Vernon. That thought was confirmed when he felt something small and cold poke at his mouth. Surprised, he pushed himself back to get away.

"Your temperature, boy. I'm just trying to take your temperature. Now stop this foolishness and open up."

Dumbfounded by this show of concern, Harry's mouth popped open of its own accord while Severus slipped in the thermometer.

"Wait for the beep," he said before returning to the dishes.

Harry sat there, waiting. He could hear Draco running around upstairs, searching for his puzzle. The rain was coming down in steady sheets, Harry noticed. The tick of the kitchen clock seemed louder than it should. It was funny the things one noticed when one chose to.

The thermometer beeped. Severus withdrew it, tsked at the results and started culling through a small cabinet. A few minutes later he returned with two small tablets and a glass of water.

"Child's aspirin," he said. "Chew, swallow, drink."

Harry nodded and did as he was told, finishing just as Draco raced down the stairs, puzzle in hand.

"Where should we put it together, Uncle Severus," Draco said.

"Here on the kitchen table, I think. Start separating the edge pieces from the others, Draco, while I take Harry upstairs and lend him a book."

Draco nodded and dumped the puzzles pieces onto the table, humming to himself as he started sorting them out.

Harry got the distinct impression that he was being ignored. He didn't much care. In fact, he was rather cross with Draco himself. Why couldn't Draco understand that Harry didn't always feel like doing what he wanted to do? Why couldn't Harry have his own interests? Why couldn't his friend see that he was hurting, especially when Mr. Snape could?

"Come, Harry," Severus said as he made his way from the kitchen and started up the stairs. Harry followed him into the guest bedroom.

"Lie here," Severus directed, pointing to the bed.

Harry hesitated for a second before climbing up and sitting stiffly in the middle.

"I said lie down," Severus snapped as he continued searching for something.

Harry nodded and scrambled to get more comfortable.

"Here," Severus said, shoving a thick book under Harry's nose. "You may keep this. I have multiple copies. If you are truly interested in tending to plants, you may find this of interest."

Harry couldn't believe it. He ran his fingers over the book's cover and traced the lettering with reverence. "Thank you," he murmured, astonished that someone would give him such a prize, such a gift.

Severus waved his gratitude away. "I get these for free from the publisher. Though, I suspect this particular edition would be hard to come by otherwise."

Harry tried to puzzle out the words. "Par—par-di-si . . . par-a-di-si," he struggled out.

"Paradisi in sole," Severus said with a flourish. "More of those funny words for you."

"Uncle Severus?" Draco said from the doorway, watching the goings on in the room with oddly glittering eyes.

"Ah, Draco. Tell me, does your school not teach Latin? Is it not a required course for year fours?"

"No, course not," he said with a snigger.

"Yes, of course not. Why teach something useful?" Severus muttered under his breath.

"Are you teaching Harry Latin?" Draco asked, coming into the room and plopping next to Harry on the bed.

"I am attempting to explain the title of this book."

Draco snatched the book from Harry's hands, which only served to make Harry very, very cross.

"Paradisi in sole," Draco said, his pronunciation perfect. "Park in . . . sun?" Draco asked.

"Very good, Draco, yes."

Harry was growing more cross by the moment. This was his book. His lesson. His secret language. He snatched the book from Draco's hands and stared at the words on the cover, willing them to make sense. "Par-a-di-si in sol-e," he whispered, trying to make his pronunciation sound as good as Draco's.

"Very good, Harry," Severus said, still trying to avoid the coming conflict between the two. From what Narcissa had told him, Harry was the passive party here, doing whatever Draco wanted, when Draco wanted. Severus suspected that Harry was tired of being a plaything; one of Draco's belongings. And not feeling well wasn't helping his disposition. So Severus sought to distract them. "It's a pun, Harry," he said in the kindest voice he could muster. The child was intelligent and clever, but unworldly. Uncultured.

Harry cocked his head to the side in thought before looking down at the book cover. His eyes darted to the author's name—John Parkinson. He looked up, understanding clear in his eyes. "Parkinson wrote a book he named Park-in-sun?"

Severus's lips quirked into a small smile. "Yes. Very clever, Harry."

"Yeah, Harry!" Draco agreed, distracted from his jealousy for the moment. "It's like semper ubi sub ubi!"

"What?" Harry asked.

"Semper ubi sub ubi," Draco repeated. "Uncle Severus taught it to me. He fancies Latin puns, don't you Uncle Severus?" Without waiting for Severus's reply, Draco continued. "It means 'always wear underwear,' well, sort of anyway." Draco giggled as only a little boy would at such obvious bathroom humor. "Get it? Semper means always, ubi means where, and sub means under. Semper ubi sub ubi. Always wear underwear!"

Harry did get it and couldn't stop his faint blush at hearing something he considered a bit risqué. Nor could he stop the torrent of little boy giggles that escaped as well. Soon, both boys were alternatively chanting "'Semper ubi sub ubi,' and 'always wear underwear,'" finding it more and more hilarious with each sing-song repetition.

Severus sat back, amused at their antics, and hoped that whatever was brewing between the two boys had passed. Harry yawned and Severus took that as their cue. "Draco, I believe we have a puzzle to put together."

"Okay," he said with reluctance. "Come put it together with us, Harry."

Harry bit his lip. "I'd really like to look at this book."

Draco's eyes turned stormy for a moment before he sniffed and said "Fine," bounding off the bed and down the stairs.

Harry sighed as Draco bounded out of the room. "Thank you, sir," he said again, gesturing towards the book.

"Certainly," Severus said as he turned to leave. At the last moment he turned again and snatched open the closet doors. He found a soft blanket and placed it beside Harry. "In case you get cold," he said before gliding out of the room and leaving Harry to his book.

Draco was bored. He'd put the edge pieces of his puzzle together and was waiting for his godfather to start helping him with the middle part. But, his godfather had received a call and was now in the living room shouting at someone in broken English and Italian. From what Draco could gather, someone hadn't properly tended to his godfather's plants at the boarding school where he taught.

Draco drummed his fingers on the table for a few minutes before trying a few of the middle pieces by himself. It was no use. This was the part that two people did. That's the way it worked. When his godfather's conversation became more heated, Draco slid from his chair and sneaked up the stairs.

"Harry?"

Harry opened his eyes at the sound of his name. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was lying on the guest bed at Draco's house with a soft blanket covering him. His new book was cradled in the crook of his arm. He looked around the room and saw Draco standing in the doorway. "Draco?" he croaked.

"Why are you sleeping?"

"I'm tired," Harry said, wishing he could go back to sleep.

"Well, stop being tired. Uncle Severus is talking to someone and I've no one to put the puzzle together with me."

"So?"

"So? So, you have to come down and help me," Draco snapped.

"No I don't," Harry hissed. "I don't want to help you put that stupid puzzle together. I want to read my new book and take a nap."

"Well, that's not what I want!" Draco said, his voice rising.

"Too bad, Draco! I don't want to and I don't have to."

Unbeknownst to the boys, Severus had crept up the stairs at the sounds of their angry little voices. As much as he'd wanted to avoid this confrontation, perhaps it was better to get it done now, before a coddling Narcissa could bollocks it up. Both Draco and Harry had lessons to learn here, Severus reckoned.

Draco gasped. He was so angry. He stood there, waiting for Harry to get out of bed and come down to the kitchen with him. But, Harry didn't do that. Instead, he returned his attention to his new book, trying to sound out the Latin words. The fact that Harry chose the book over him, that Harry chose his godfather over him, made Draco boil with jealousy. He charged into the room and snatched the book from Harry's hands. "I want to work on the puzzle!"

"Then go work on the puzzle!" Harry shouted as he reached for his book.

"No. You have to work on it with me."

"No I don't, Draco. Give me my book!"

"NO!"

"Why are you doing this?" Harry screamed as he untangled himself from his blankets and leapt to his feet.

"Because . . . because," Draco said, searching, groping, for the answer, "Because you're my boy! My lion! My Harry! You do what I say!" he blurted.

Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "I am not a thing," he hissed. "I don't belong to you," he roared. "I don't want to put together your stupid puzzle and I'm not going to. I'm not some little toy that you can knock about and make me do what you want!" he bellowed. Draco was supposed to be his friend, not like—well, not like his family—ordering him about as if his feelings didn't matter.

Draco stood there, blinking, having no idea what to say. The book dropped from his hands and hit the floor with a solid thump. "What did you say?"

Harry gasped and his hand flew to his mouth. How could he have said such things? He wasn't allowed to say such things. "I—I," he stammered, intending to say he was sorry. But the words were stuck in his throat—unwilling to come. Instead, he rushed past Draco and almost bowled over Severus as he darted out of the room. At the sight of Severus, Harry gasped again, stammered "I—I," again, before rushing past him and clamoring down the stairs.

Severus tried to stop Harry from running away, but the boy was too quick. Severus was almost proud of Harry's fortitude and defiance. Standing up to Draco—anyone standing up to Draco—had been a long time in coming.

"Draco," Severus growled.

Draco whirled around. His eyes grew large at the sight of his godfather.

"Sit," Severus commanded. "I think it's time we had a little chat."

Severus heard the sniffling long before he found its source. Harry had gone into hiding nearly an hour before. Severus had just finished his chat with Draco. Draco was now doing his own sniffling.

Severus moved around the basement, walking towards the sniffles. Ah, the desk. Harry was hiding under the desk. Severus sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Karma, I better bloody well get some good karma for this," he muttered to himself, looking skyward, before he dropped to a crouch and shuffled forward. It was highly undignified—this crawling about on a dirty basement floor—and Narcissa was going to hear about this for years. He stopped when he could make out a little body crammed against the backside of the desk.

"What are you doing under there? You'll catch your death."

Harry sniffled again. "Sorry, sir," he murmured.

He looked so small, so vulnerable, sitting in a little ball in the back corner of the cramped space. Harry sniffled again. Severus passed him another tissue. He was beginning to like the boy, much as he loathed admitting such a foolish and sentimental thing.

"Thank you," Harry whispered.

Severus let a few moments pass before he spoke again. "That was terribly rude, I'll have you know."

Harry's head dropped. "I—I'm--"

But before he could finish, Severus started talking again. "The rules dictate that one give his opponent the opportunity to save face and apologize properly after being trounced. Draco owes you an apology, boy. It was rude not to let him give it to you."

Harry's head snapped up. "What?"

"Come out from under there," Severus said. "I'll not be having conversations with sick little boys hiding under dusty old furniture in drafty basements. Your capacity for melodrama surpasses Draco's, which I never dared believe possible. No wonder he's so enamored with you."

"What?" Harry said, not understanding half of what Severus had just said.

"Get out from under there, this instant!"

Harry scrambled to comply. He opened his mouth to apologize.

"Stop. Cease. Desist. No more apologies. You're giving me a bloody headache with all of these apologies."

Harry started to apologize for that as well before stopping himself.

"Now, Harry, I suggest we conduct our affairs elsewhere. Do you agree?"

Harry nodded. Harry still didn't know exactly what Severus was talking about, but he always seemed much happier when Harry nodded.

"Very well. Follow me. Wipe your face," he said as he glanced back at the red, blotchy-faced boy behind him.

They made it to the living room, where an equally red and blotchy-faced Draco paced and wrung his hands. At the sight of Severus and Harry, Draco flew at Harry and dragged him to the couch.

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I am. I really am. Please don't stop being my friend. Please!" he begged.

Harry was more bewildered than he'd even been in his life. Shouldn't he be the one saying these things? "Yeah, okay," he said, his eyes darting to Severus.

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I just—I thought . . . Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Draco said as he fussed over his friend.

Harry shook his head. "I dunno."

"I told you I would still play with you if you were sick! Just because that mean old horse--"

"Draco," Severus admonished.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I mean, just because your aunt won't let me see you when you're sick doesn't mean that I don't want to play with you."

Harry nodded. "I know. It's better that you don't come. No use in you getting sick, too."

"Yet here you are, infecting us with your sniffles," Severus said, his gaze narrowed and assessing.

Harry's heart flew to his throat. He wasn't being careful! Aunt Petunia was always telling him he had to be careful. "I—I . . . I didn't . . . I just wanted . . ."

"Yes, yes you just wanted to play with your friend. Selfish little cretins, the lot of you," Severus said.

Harry nodded. Over the years he'd discovered that if he stayed quiet, people supplied the answers to their questions themselves. And the answer was usually what they wanted to believe.

"Never mind. What's done is done. Back up the stairs with you. On the bed, under the blanket. No noise, no talking, no rambunctious play," Severus said as he rose and retreated to the kitchen and the half-done puzzle.

"Come on, Harry," Draco said as he gently pulled him up. "You want the radio? I like the radio when I'm not feeling well. I can tell you another story about Mr. Culpepper if you like."

Harry nodded, still reeling from the bizarre events of the day.


	7. Keeping it in the Family

**A/N: **As always, a special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

**CHAPTER 7: KEEPING IT IN THE FAMILY**

It was late in the evening before Narcissa returned. She found a half-done puzzle on the table and Severus napping on the couch, surrounded by papers, books and journals.

"Severus," she whispered as she shook his shoulder.

Severus woke with a start. He peered up at Narcissa before struggling to right himself. "Oh. It's you. Finally come home, have you?" he grumbled as he sat up and slumped against the arm of the couch.

"I'm so sorry. You know Bella. Things are always so emotional with her."

"Hmm," Severus began, "seems your son has inherited her quirky traits."

"Oh, no. What's happened?" Narcissa asked as she sat in the small arm chair to the left of the couch.

"Nothing that probably shouldn't have happened six months ago. Draco's little friend, Harry I believe, finally got tired of being treated like a little doll—told Draco off proper for it. He can be surprisingly fierce."

Narcissa chuckled. "Good. Draco needed that. I daresay Harry did to. I was worried about how passive he is. I wonder what finally set him off?"

"It was probably the fever and the head-pounding sniffles he's had for the last two days."

Narcissa shot to her feet. "He's sick? Why didn't you tell me straight away? Where is he? Did Petunia leave instructions? Medicine? Doctor information?"

"What's the problem? He's a little boy with the sniffles. Though, that horse-faced she-devil tried to pass it off as allergies."

Narcissa shot Severus a glare as she made her way to the stairs. "Now at least I know where Draco gets it from."

Severus lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "I don't know what you mean."

Narcissa rolled her eyes and started up the stairs. "Is he in with Draco?"

Severus snorted as he stood and stumbled after Narcissa. "No. Guest room. Quarantine."

Narcissa entered the guest bedroom quietly and switched on a small table lamp. Harry was huddled in the center of the bed, wrapped in blankets with Draco's Leo the Lion plushy tucked in the crook of his arm. Narcissa heard the faint sounds of music coming from the corner. A dark blanket had been flung across the top of the drapery rods as if to hide the window. Draco's work, all of it, Narcissa was sure. Though, the window thing was strange. Narcissa moved to the bed and sat on the edge closest to Harry.

"Harry, love," she whispered as she shook him lightly. He didn't wake right away. She shook him again. "Harry, love. Come on now, I need you to wake up."

"Aunt Petunia?" he muttered in a sleep-thick voice.

"No, love, it's Draco's mum. Come on now, I need you to wake up for me."

Harry's eyes fluttered open. He struggled to get free of his cotton cocoon. "Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked.

"Shh, shh, shh. I just need to ask you a few questions," she said as she felt his forehead. He felt hot. She glanced back at Severus. He nodded and left to get the thermometer, child's aspirin and water. "Harry? Where's your bag? Is your medicine in there?"

Still sleepy, Harry was confused by the question. What medicine? "I—I don't know," he said honestly.

"Is your bag in Draco's room?"

Harry nodded.

"Stay right here. I'll be back in few minutes."

Narcissa left just as Severus returned. "Open up," he said as he thrust the thermometer at Harry.

Harry sat, huddled in his blankets, the thermometer in his mouth, watching what was going on around him. He looked over to the window and saw the blanket, looking as though someone very short had flung it there. If he could have, he would have sighed. Draco must have remembered his ridiculous lie about not liking windows and had taken it to heart. His gaze snapped to the doorway as Mrs. Malfoy entered with his little overnight bag. He watched as she and Mr. Snape dug through, whispering back and forth as they did so. Mrs. Malfoy was asking something of Mr. Snape, and he was getting angry, Harry thought. He heard him say, "No. Nothing. She said nothing." The thermometer beeped. Mrs. Malfoy and Mr. Snape stopped talking and turned. They exchanged glances before Mrs. Malfoy smiled and came over.

"Let's have a look," Narcissa said, tsking just as Severus had as she read the results. "Harry, there's no medicine in your bag. Who's your doctor? I need to know what to give you."

Harry didn't know what to say. Aunt Petunia had never told him what to say to something like this. No one had ever asked him these questions before. "I—I," he struggled. "I don't remember," he said, hoping that would be enough.

Severus huffed. Narcissa shot him a sharp glance. She turned back to Harry. "It's okay, love. Tell me, where is your family staying? I'll just ring them and get the information."

Harry didn't know this either. "I don't know," he said, frustration edging into his voice.

Narcissa hesitated before turning to Severus. "Are you sure she didn't give you any information? She didn't say anything about where they were staying?"

"I told you, Narcissa, she was just happy to get rid of the boy. She said nothing except that he was suffering from allergies."

Narcissa turned back to Harry. "Harry? I didn't know you had allergies? What kinds? What are you allergic too? Are you allergic to any kinds of medicines?"

Harry was starting to panic at all the questions. And there was that allergy word again. Did it have something to do with being sick? What did it mean? "I don't know!" he cried, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, it's okay, love. It's okay. Here's what we'll do. We'll figure this out together, yes?"

Harry nodded.

"Does your head hurt?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said in a small voice.

"And, you've got the sniffles, right?"

Harry nodded.

"How about your tummy? Does your tummy hurt?"

Harry hesitated before shaking his head no.

"Okay. How about your throat? Does that hurt? Are you coughing?"

Harry nodded yes. This was easy. He could do this without getting into trouble.

"Good, Harry, good. Are you tired?"

He nodded again.

"Headache?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Feel all stuffy?"

Harry nodded.

"Sounds like a cold. We'll keep you bundled up and give you some medicine. Does your Aunt give you red liquid that tastes like cherries when you're sick?"

Harry had no idea what Mrs. Malfoy was talking about, but 'yes' seemed to be the right answer. He nodded his head. When she relaxed, Harry knew he'd answered the right way.

"Chew these and drink this glass of water. Then I'll give you the cold syrup."

Harry took the child's aspirin from Mr. Snape's outstretched hand while Mrs. Malfoy left the room. He'd just finished his glass of water when she came back with a small plastic cup filled with red liquid.

"Here you go. Drink it all."

Harry took the cup and drank the liquid. Ugh! It tasted awful and burned his throat. He coughed and his eyes watered.

"I know, I know. But it makes you feel better, doesn't it?"

Harry didn't say anything.

"Let's get you back under the covers," she said as she tucked the blankets around him and kissed him on the forehead.

Harry gasped at the kiss to his forehead. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. Sorry for the trouble," he said.

"Don't worry, love, you'll be fine. You'll see."

After kissing Harry goodnight, Narcissa made her way down the stairs, trailed by Severus.

"Very odd, don't you think," he drawled.

Narcissa tensed. She knew exactly where this conversation was headed and she wanted no part of it. She shrugged. "He gets sick a lot. Probably old hat to him."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," Severus growled.

Narcissa whirled around. "No. I don't know what you mean. Spell it out for me," she snapped.

Startled by her response, Severus took a step back. "Something is not right with that family, and you know it," he said.

Narcissa's face drained of color. "I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. This was not his family. Not his problem. He'd known Harry for all of two days. Who was he to say that something odd was going on? And, even if there was, who was he to get involved? "I don't have time for this," he said, shaking his head. He gathered his papers and packed them in his valise. "I'll say this, though, thank god that awful woman isn't my aunt. Give my best to Draco." Severus turned and walked towards the door. He hesitated. "And to Harry as well," he said before leaving.

"It's none of my business," Narcissa hissed at the closed door. "He's just an odd little boy. So what if his relatives aren't perfect? That doesn't mean anything," she murmured, willing herself to believe it.

Narcissa kept Harry in bed for two more days until she was sure that he was feeling better. True to his word, Draco played quietly with Harry and let him sleep when he wanted. Twice she'd tried to remove the blanket from the window, but both times Draco had stopped her, claiming that it made Harry feel better to have it there. Narcissa chalked it up to yet another of Harry's odd quirks. He had far too many, a little voice told her.

She stood at the kitchen window watching the goings on outside. Harry and Draco were running around in the backyard playing tag. Narcissa smiled at their open faces, their laughter, and their true affection for each other. She'd detected a subtle shift in their relationship over the last few days. The boys were on more equal footing now. Harry was more inclined to make his feelings known and Draco, for the most part, respected them.

A sharp rap at the front door startled her. She glanced at the clock and frowned. Checking to make sure the boys were still playing, she went to greet her guest.

"Narcissa. How lovely to see you," Petunia said as Narcissa opened the door.

Narcissa sighed. She tried to quell her unease. This was not a conversation she'd ever had to have. She wasn't even sure where to begin. She took a deep breath and smiled. "Won't you come in, Petunia. I was hoping we could have a chat before the boys come in."

Petunia's smile faltered. "Of course." She followed Narcissa into the living room. "I do hope Harry didn't cause any trouble."

"Harry became ill while you were away," Narcissa said, cutting right to it.

Petunia paled. "Oh?" she said. "Are you sure, Narcissa? The boy has terrible allergies."

"I think the fever dispelled that theory," Narcissa said flatly.

"I see," Petunia said. "Well, I do apologize. As you know, Harry has many problems--"

"I'd like to talk with you about that, actually," Narcissa snapped. "You see, I'm very concerned about a number of things. Why is it that Harry who is supposed to be so ill all of the time, had no idea who his doctor is? What he's allergic to? What medicines he takes? Why didn't you take Harry with you on holiday? Why didn't you leave information so that we could contact you in case something like what happened, happened? And why, Petunia, do I get the distinct impression that you abhor that sweet child?"

Petunia pursed her lips and squared her shoulders. Looking Narcissa Malfoy right in the eye—as if to say, "how dare you?"—Petunia whispered, "Just what are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything," Narcissa said. "I'm telling you that something is going on in the Dursley house—something that involves Harry—and I don't like it. Not one bit."

Petunia continued to stare at Narcissa for a few moments before her pursed lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "You know," she began lightly, "it's funny what rumors can do."

Narcissa frowned, not understanding where Petunia was going.

Petunia chuckled and readjusted the sweater on her shoulders. "I think rumors are just awful, awful things. Don't you? A nasty business, they are. And, they can do such devastation—even when they aren't true," she said, while staring directly at Narcissa.

"What?" Narcissa began.

"You see," Petunia interrupted, as if Narcissa had said nothing, "Vernon heard a particularly nasty rumor about your late husband. Would you like to know what he heard?"

Narcissa's face drained of color. "I don't care for rumors," she sniffed, while her stomach churned.

"Yes, yes. I agree," Petunia said, sidling a bit closer. "That's why I bring this up, you see. I mean, if I actually believed that your husband was involved in illegal activities, had mob connections or some such other thing, why in the world would I allow my nephew over to play?"

Narcissa felt as though she might faint. "That's a lie," she whispered. "Lucius wasn't involved in anything like that," she said, wishing desperately that she could believe it.

"Oh, I believe you," Petunia said, her hand over her heart. "But there are so many others who just lie in wait for such vicious untruths, who glory in someone else's ruin. All because appearances seem . . . off. It's a shame when things like that happen. Don't you think?"

Narcissa nodded, still frozen.

"For instance, it would be a shame for that ridiculous rumor to spread about your late husband. Can you imagine the effect of something like that on Draco?" Petunia tsked at the notion. "Or, if someone were to suggest that Harry wasn't being treated well . . . why, that's just as ludicrous, don't you agree?"

"Don't try to blackmail me," Narcissa hissed in a show of bravado, but she felt out of her depth. This was the kind of thing that Lucius handled. But, then again, Lucius was the reason she was in this mess.

Petunia's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Where ever would you get such a silly notion? I was merely commiserating with you, Narcissa. I know what it's like to be unfairly accused of ridiculous things. Harry is an odd little boy. We've tried our best with him, but at some point we just have to let him be himself. I had hoped he'd come with us on holiday, but he's deathly afraid of car travel. It's all I can do to get him to school in the mornings. You see, his parents died in a smash-up when he was a small child. He was with them. He's even got a scar across his forehead from it. But, we can't always accommodate him. Dudley deserves a life as well."

"Then why the threats? And, don't pretend that they're anything but," Narcissa said.

"I know what it looks like. I've been through this before. Harry is . . . well, Harry. And that creates problems sometimes. Why the heavy handedness? I'd do anything to protect my family, Narcissa. Wouldn't you?"

Narcissa didn't say anything, but inside she was nodding. She would, in fact, do almost anything to protect her family. She felt her resolve crumble as her vague suspicions were knocked down one by one. And, was it worth hurting Draco to voice suspicions? "But, that doesn't explain the doctor, the medicine, the lack of information about where you were staying," she pressed, desperately clinging to her good intentions.

Before Petunia could answer, the backdoor slammed and the thunderous sound of little boy feet echoed into the living room.

"Mum!" Draco called. "We need juice," he said as he and Harry barreled into the living room. Both stopped short at the sight of Draco's mum and Harry's aunt sitting on the couch.

"Hello, Harry," Petunia said.

"Hullo," Harry murmured as his gaze darted between his aunt and Mrs. Malfoy.

"Harry, Mrs. Malfoy was just telling me something awful. She said that there was no doctor or contact information in your bag. What did you do with the piece of paper I gave you with all of that information?" she asked, her eyes telling Harry that he'd better go along with this or else.

Harry dropped his head. He took a deep breath. "I must have lost it," he lied.

"Harry," Petunia said with a put-upon sigh. "How many times must we go through this? Am I going to have to start pinning these things to your jumpers?" she asked with a small chuckle.

Harry's face colored in embarrassment. He shot a glance at Mrs. Malfoy and over to Draco before focusing on Petunia. "No, ma'am," he mumbled. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"And, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well? You said it was just your allergies. There's no need to be embarrassed about getting sick, Harry. I daresay you caused Mrs. Malfoy quite a bit of panic," Petunia admonished.

Harry shot another glance at Mrs. Malfoy. His face colored even more. "Sorry," he said again. "I should have said something," he murmured.

"Yes, you should have."

"No harm done," Mrs. Malfoy interjected. She hated seeing Harry so forlorn. "Really, it's okay. Perhaps the best thing to do, Petunia, is for you to give me the information so that I can always have it on hand. That way Harry won't have to remember to bring it over."

Petunia sniffed. "Yes, of course," she said. "I'll get that to you soon." Petunia turned to Harry. "Go and pack your things. I think you need to spend the rest of the day in bed. Don't want a relapse, now do we?"

Harry shook his head back and forth. "No," he whispered.

"Good boy," Petunia said.

"Thanks for letting me stay. Sorry for the trouble," Harry said to Narcissa and Draco. "I'll see you in school, Draco."

Draco nodded, not understanding what was happening.

"Well, Narcissa. Lovely chatting with you," Petunia said as she stood and walked towards the door.

"Yes," Narcissa said absently.

Harry came back down the stairs with his little bag slung over his shoulder. "Bye," he said as he and Petunia left.

The door closed silently behind them. Narcissa stood there, staring at the door, and wondered if she was doing the right thing by letting this go. It didn't escape her that she was at the proverbial fork and had chosen the easier path, hoping that it was also the right one.

"Mum?" Draco asked.

"Yes, dragon?" she replied as she pulled him to her and cuddled him close, despite his protests.

"Why are we staring at a closed door?" he asked.

Narcissa hesitated, not knowing how to answer.


	8. Year of the Dragon

**A/N: **As always, a special thanks to Sansa who is a selfless beta and wonderful friend. Let's all heap praise on Sansa! She deserves it.

**Pesky legal disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., her assigns, agents, licensees and all others to whom she grants her wonderful dispensation. Sadly, I am not on that list, nor do ever expect to be. I write this purely for fun and guilty pleasure and make no money from this.

**CHAPTER 8:YEAR OF THE DRAGON**

Ten-year-old Harry eyed the post sitting in the middle of the dining table with ill-concealed glee and curiosity. The neat black script on the fronts of the thick, creamy envelopes made the mundane names "Harry Potter" and "Dudley Dursley" seem almost regal. Who had sent him post? And to Dudley as well? He nibbled his toast, too excited to eat more than a few bites. He wanted his letter!

"Father, please may I open my letter?" Dudley asked again in a piggish whine. His beady eyes had been darting between the post and his breakfast all morning.

"Not until after breakfast," Vernon said for the tenth time as he turned the page of the morning paper. "I say Petunia, did you read the story about this bloke running around stealing flower pots?" Vernon snorted. "Who in their right mind would steal a flower pot? A potted one at that?"

"I want to open my letter. Now!" Dudley demanded as he thumped his meaty fists on the table.

Vernon peered from behind the paper. "I was trying to read, Dudders," he said before sighing and gesturing towards the letters, "Fine, fine."

Dudley leapt for his, snatching it away and sending Harry's skittering across the table where it landed in the butter dish. Harry fought the urge to remove it.

Vernon eyed Harry as Dudley ripped open his letter and tossed the envelope behind him. "I suppose you'll be wanting to open your letter as well?"

Harry nodded.

"Fine, fine," he said before ruffling the pages of the paper and returning to the engrossing, hard-hitting journalism about the Mum Marauder.

Harry plucked his letter from the butter dish and carefully wiped the corner on his napkin. Unlike Dudley, Harry examined his letter for quite some time before prising open the flap with his index finger. Not paying attention to the chatter at the end of the table, he withdrew the heavy cardstock inside. There was a beautiful dragon dancing across the top of the card, breathing fire and almost appearing to move. Harry scanned it quickly. It was an invitation to Draco's eleventh birthday party in two weeks time. Harry drew his fingers across the fancy lettering and smiled.

"Boring," Dudley huffed before dropping the invitation on the table and retuning to his grapefruit half.

"Now, now, Duddekins," Petunia muttered as she examined the invitation with a slight frown. She looked over at Harry. "I assume you got the same, then?" she said as she gestured towards the invitation.

Harry nodded.

Petunia sighed. "Well, Dudders, we'll have to find Draco an extra special gift. It's not everyday that a young man turns eleven."

Dudley grunted as he finished his grapefruit and eyed Harry's remaining piece of toast.

Seeing this, Harry pulled his little plate of toast towards him and curled his arm around it, protecting it, as he glared at Dudley.

Sighing, Dudley's gaze swung back to the invitation. He swiped it from Petunia's loose grip and fisted it with his meaty hands, creasing the edges. He squinted and silently sounded out a few of the words. "Tempus? Lo-locus? What kind of funny words are those? What do they mean?" Dudley muttered.

"It's Latin, Dudley. Tempus means time. Locus means location," Harry said, hiding his smirk behind his own invitation.

Dudley peered at him with his squinty little eyes before tossing the invitation over his shoulder. "Figures that a little freak like you would know that. And, that your freaky little friend would send a birthday party invitation written in Latin." Dudley snorted.

Harry ignored him and focused on his invitation, excited to be included, not paying attention to conversation about the Mum Marauder or what kind of expensive gift an eleven-year-old boy might like.

ssssssssssssssss

"You get the invitation?" Draco asked as he and Harry trudged down the street to the park.

"Yeah. Thanks!" Harry said, beaming.

"Did you like it? Mum picked it out," Draco said, keenly interested in what his friend thought. As of late, Draco had become rather self-aware of what people thought of him and his choices, of what Harry thought.

"It was brilliant. I loved the dragon across the top. Dudley didn't understand the Latin," Harry said with a conspiratorial giggle.

"Figures," Draco said with a waggle to his eyebrows. A curious weight lifted from him at the realization that Harry liked the invitation—thought it brilliant, even. "Uncle Severus sent the next lesson. Want to work on it with me? Can you stay the night?"

"I'll have to ask," Harry said. "But, yeah. Sure. I can't believe I'm learning Latin. For fun!"

"Yeah, well, that's Uncle Severus for you. He's always asking after you, you know."

Harry felt warmth bubble through him at the thought that someone asked after him. "Oh," he said.

"He's coming to the party, I think. Can you come?"

"Yeah. I think Aunt Petunia talked to your mum about it."

Draco nodded. "I'm glad you can come," he murmured. "Mum's getting chocolate éclairs. Just for you!"

Harry stopped short. "Just for me?" he said.

Draco cocked his head. "Yeah. Considering you ate almost all of them the last time!" Draco laughed as Harry colored.

"Shut it. Your mum said I could have as many as I wanted."

"And you did, didn't you? Who knew such a skinny brat like you could put away an entire box of éclairs?"

"I'm a growing boy," Harry defended with a sniff.

"And you made all of those funny sounds," Draco continued, imitating Harry's moaning with great exaggeration.

Harry's lips pursed. "Yeah, well how about you and those stupid rocks we found last week?" Harry's brow arched. "Oh, Harry! Do you think it's treasure?" he imitated in a high-pitched voice while wringing his hands under his chin.

"Hey! I don't sound like that," Draco spat. The image was ruined, though, as he started laughing. "And, at least I don't make all those funny sounds when I eat chocolate!"

Harry reached over to push him, his lips still pursed, but his eyes danced with amusement. Draco skittered away, still laughing. He continued imitating Harry as Harry chased him down the street, trying to get in a good push or tickle. Draco retaliated, and soon both boys were laughing and chasing each other as they ran the rest of the way to the park.

They spent the afternoon building forts, playing a few short games of tag and making curious piles of sticks for reasons known only to young boys. They rounded out the day on the swing set as the afternoon waned and families packed up and left the park.

"Hey, Draco. How come you haven't had a party before this?" Harry asked while his feet traced the ruts in the ground beneath him.

Draco shrugged. "Had them all the time when I was younger. After Dad . . ." Draco shrugged again. "Just didn't, I guess."

Harry nodded.

"What about you? Why haven't you had a birthday party?" Draco asked as he swiveled in a lazy side-to-side motion.

Harry shrugged. "Dunno," he lied.

"It is because you get sick a lot? Having all those kids over, I mean?" Draco asked in a low voice. It was rare that he asked Harry about what was wrong with him. He wasn't sick that often and always seemed to come through it fine, so Draco saw no reason to ask too many questions.

"Hmm," Harry said in response, letting Draco believe what he wanted.

"When is your birthday, anyway?" Draco asked. "It's in the summer, I know. Mum and I always just sort of guess."

"July thirty-first," Harry blurted, staring down at the ground.

"July thirty-first," Draco repeated. "I'll have to remember that. That's only four months away. Maybe we can have a party for you this year, yeah? You and me, Mum, Uncle Severus, Pansy. Oh, and your relatives of course," Draco hastened to add.

Harry smiled. "Sure," he said.

"Come on, let's go," Draco said with a sigh as he hoisted himself from the swing. He held out his hand to Harry. "Mum will be wondering where we are."

ssssssssssssssssssss

Harry peeked around the corner of the living room as Petunia fretted over several brightly packaged toys. It was the day before Draco's birthday party and Petunia was still trying to decide on the perfect gift for Draco from Dudley.

"Popkins?" Petunia called. "Which of these do you think Draco would like better?"

Dudley sighed, heaved himself from the couch and lumbered into the kitchen. He gave a cursory glance at the two gifts Petunia held up and shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said before returning to the couch.

Petunia frowned, eyed the two gifts and decided on the more expensive one. "This one, then," she said, shaking it in Dudley's general direction.

With great effort, Dudley raised his head and looked at the gift Petunia had chosen. "Whatever," he said before turning back to his program.

Harry sighed. He knew that the other gift would go back to the store—there would be no brightly wrapped gift from Harry, courtesy of the Dursleys, anyway. It didn't matter, though, because Harry was prepared.

With a little bit of creative procurement, he'd come up with the perfect gift for Draco. He'd drawn a "genuine" treasure map—complete with clues—on a piece of crumpled parchment he'd swiped from the bin beside the Dursley's secretary. Mrs. Malfoy had given him an old lidded tin, which he'd sprayed gold with some old paint he'd found in the Dursleys' garage. The science teacher at school had planned on chucking a number of semi-precious stones—azurite, fool's gold, quartz—but, Harry had convinced him to give them to him instead. He'd put the stones in the tin and, with Mrs. Malfoy's help, buried the little treasure chest in the back garden of Draco's house. He'd torn and scuffed the edges of the parchment before rolling it and tying it with a spare bit of ribbon he'd found among his aunt's gift-wrapping supplies.

He couldn't wait to give it to Draco, his closest friend. His only friend, really. In the almost three years they'd been friends Harry had gotten to know Draco well—well enough that he'd almost told his deepest secrets. But, he never did. He didn't think Draco would understand about his family. And, it wasn't like he was ever hurt badly, well not that often, anyway. Loads of kids had it far worse than he did.

The slam of the front door startled Harry. He heard the cranky grumbling before he actually saw his uncle. Determined to stay out of his way, Harry darted into the hall, intending to make it up the stairs before Vernon had a chance to waddle further. His timing was horrific, however, and he managed to crash into Vernon instead. Vernon fell backward into the wall, knocking over the umbrella stand in the process, while Harry bounced against the other wall and started to fall.

"Why, you ungrateful little freak," Vernon hissed as he righted himself. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder, pulled him up and shook him hard.

"Sorry," Harry murmured, trying to twist away.

Vernon gripped harder, causing Harry to wince and cry out.

"You'll be sorry when I'm through with you," Vernon said as he raised his hand to backhand Harry across the face.

"Don't," a voice cried out.

Both Harry and Vernon looked up in surprise.

"Let him go, Vernon," Petunia said. "Up to your room, boy, and stay there until I call for you," she snapped at Harry.

He nodded and the second Vernon's grip loosened, he shot up the stairs and ran to his room. He had no idea what possessed his aunt to stop his uncle from hitting him, but he was grateful for small favors.

When she heard the door to Harry's room close, Petunia went to the living room, whispered something in Dudley's ear, gave him a number of five-pound notes and watched him leave the house before turned back to a bewildered Vernon.

"What's gotten in to you?" Vernon roared, once the house was quiet. His face was purple with rage. His hands were tightly fisted at his side.

Most people would have stepped back at such a sight. Petunia Dursley stepped forward. "I should ask the same thing. What happened? Why are you home so early?"

Vernon looked down and scuffed his shoes across the marbled carpeting. "That bint of a stockgirl, that's what. Made trouble—stupid management believed her pack of lies. Demoted me for six months. Right in front of the lads, too. And what do I come home to? That good for nothing boy ramming into me. He needs punished!"

Petunia's fingers brushed the left side of her neat French twist in irritation. Not only did the boy embarrass her, now her husband was as well. "Not today, Vernon. Find another way," she hissed.

"What are you on about? That boy deserves a sound thrashing, crashing into me the way he did. No manners, Petunia, that little freak has no manners. He must be taught."

"Not that way. Not this time."

Vernon puffed up even more and blustered as he stepped forward. When he failed to intimidate Petunia, he sagged and slumped against the wall. "You've never cared before, Pet. Why now?" he whined.

"Because he has to go to that bloody party at the Malfoys tomorrow, that's why!"

"But--"

"No, Vernon. NO. He can't get 'sick' and he can't have an 'accident.' There will be enough speculation about your . . . your demotion, thank you very much. We don't need more questions about the boy on top of it. Narcissa Malfoy is overly fond of him. She already suspects that something isn't right here—I'll not give her or anyone else in this neighborhood any ammunition. Need I remind you of that nearly disastrous conversation I had with her two years ago? She nagged me for months for the boy's doctor's information before finally giving up. Do you know how hard I work at keeping him out of sight after you've punished him? And, I know the boy deserves it, Vernon, so save your bluster. It's not our fault that he does everything wrong. And, it certainly isn't our fault that he bruises easily. But, not everyone understands. Too many questions, Vernon. I'll not have any questions here. Do you understand?"

"Fine," Vernon growled. "But he goes without dinner the rest of the week and he's given double chores. That boy needs to learn his place."

"Agreed," Petunia said.

"Keep him the bloody well out of my way, Petunia. Or, I won't be responsible for what happens to that cheeky little brat."

Petunia nodded.

Vernon stomped away, kicking the overturned umbrella stand as he did so. Once he'd settled in front of the telly, Petunia sighed in relief. She wasn't going to let that boy muck up her life more than he already had—even if it meant interfering with his well-deserved punishment. Appearances were everything in a town like Little Whinging and Petunia had a lot to cover.

sssssssssssss

Paper dragons danced in the light breeze as children ran about and adults stood off to the side. Green, gold, red, silver, blue—the dragons made for a splendid riot of color against the large, bland picnicking tent they festooned. The unseasonably warm weather had made a garden party ideal.

Harry, Dudley and Petunia were standing in the garden, taking all of it in, when Narcissa spotted them. "Ah, Petunia. How lovely to see you," Narcissa said with false sweetness. "Harry, Dudley, glad you could join Draco for his party."

"Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry murmured. Narcissa winked at him, causing Harry to blush and look away.

"Yes, thank you so much for inviting the boys to the party," Petunia said, as she dug her bony elbow into Dudley's side.

Dudley shook himself from his stupor. "Yeah, thanks," he said before toddling off to the refreshment table.

"Harry!" Pansy yelled as she ran up and grabbed him by the hand and began pulling him away. "Come sit with me," she whined. "The boys are running about and ruining my party dress."

"But, _I'm_ a boy," Harry said, nonplussed at Pansy's insinuation. "Maybe I want to run around too."

Pansy rolled her eyes and tugged his hand. When he didn't move, she changed tactics. "Mrs. Malfoy? Your garden is lovely. Anything new planted? Say, by that little bench in the far corner?"

"Why yes, Pansy," Narcissa said, stifling a laugh at Pansy's obvious tactics. "I'm surprised you noticed, dear."

"Draco mentioned something about showing them to Harry later," Pansy said as Harry squinted and leaned forward, trying to make out what the new plants were.

Pansy squeezed his hand and batted her eyes. "Come tell me what they are, Harry?" she coaxed in a singsong voice.

"Erm, sure," he said as he smiled weakly at her before waving a quick goodbye to his aunt and Mrs. Malfoy.

Petunia sniffed in his direction but otherwise made no acknowledgment of his departure. She was too busy preparing for the battle of politely strained conversation in which she and Narcissa always seemed to engage. It was an odd relationship they shared—one based on mutual distrust and fear.

"Draco wondered if Harry could spend the night. I assume that won't be a problem?" Narcissa asked.

"Of course not," Petunia replied as she produced the brightly wrapped gift. "Where shall I put this? This is from Dudley," Petunia added.

Unfazed, Narcissa smiled, "Over there," she said, pointing to a table already groaning from the weight of presents. "Though, I daresay that Draco will like Harry's gift the best."

A hint of surprise flitted across Petunia's face. "I see," she said. "No wonder Harry refused to let me find a suitable gift for him to give."

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Narcissa said.

"Are you sure Harry won't be a problem?"

"Of course not," Narcissa replied. "I've got some extra pajamas and things here just for him. We found some lovely things for him the other day—he's such a joy to shop for, don't you think? Always so polite—happy to have anything you give him. Strange, really."

Petunia shifted the sweater on her shoulders. She sniffed. "How fortunate for you that the b—that Harry actually behaves. He has appalling manners any other time."

"Interesting. We find Harry delightful. Now, I know you've never given us his medical information, but I daresay I could call on you should something happen? Not planning on slipping out of town without leaving any information, are you?" Narcissa asked with a chuckle.

Petunia's blood boiled. How dare she. How DARE she! They'd been doing this same little dance now for two years—neither wanting certain rumors publicized. But, Narcissa always took it too far. Because she could. No matter what, she was the matron of society in Little Whinging and Petunia Dursley, despite her great efforts, was still seen as the hanger-on. And now, that nasty business with Vernon had made things even worse. Petunia was sure everyone at the party knew—she could tell by the way they were all glancing at her.

"Of course not," Petunia scoffed, pretending that Narcissa's comment had been meant to tease, as if they were old friends.

"Wonderful." Narcissa looked through Petunia, as she so often did. "Nice seeing you again," she said with perfect grace and dignity and not meaning a word of it.

"I must say, Narcissa, I'm surprised you're having such a large party for Draco," Petunia blurted as Narcissa turned to leave.

Narcissa turned back around. "Why ever would that surprise you?"

"Well, with what's happened, I'm just surprised. Having a large party. Out in the open like this? Where anyone could just . . . drop in?" Petunia wasn't sure what had spurred her to this course of action, but she just had to see Narcissa crumble. For bloody once, Narcissa was going to come out on the wrong side.

"If you have a point, get to it," Narcissa hissed, tired of Petunia Dursley and, once again, cursing Lucius Malfoy's name. She endured this loathsome woman in order to protect her family, to protect Draco, but she was tired of it.

Petunia smiled—genuinely smiled—she'd managed to rile the ice queen of Magnolia Crescent. She'd meant to keep this information to herself a bit longer, while she quietly gathered more, but Narcissa had pushed her too far today. "You mean you don't know?" she began. "I read just this morning that Trotter Blackmun had been released from prison. Didn't he used to live in Little Whinging? Isn't he the one that was involved with your husband's tragic murder? I heard he was connected with some sort of underground criminal network." Petunia shuddered in an effort to mask her glee at the pale, drawn face of Narcissa Malfoy. "Personally, I could not imagine associating with such a man. But, I'm sure Lucius didn't know. And, he certainly paid the price didn't he? I'd heard Blackmun muttered something about getting revenge."

Narcissa's eyes darted around until they found Draco. She relaxed, knowing that, for the moment, he was safe. "I must say, Petunia, you are in rare form today. I commend you. Though, how sad for you that you have to stoop to this as a means of gaining a place in society—one for which you are supremely ill-suited, mind you. But, I suppose we do what we must. If you'll excuse me, I really must attend to Draco's other guests."

"Of course, dear," Petunia said with a vicious smirk, thinking she'd won this round. "Duties at home call, after all. Husbands, while wonderful creatures, can be so demanding, don't you agree? Though, I don't know what I'd do without mine." Her hand flew to her mouth at the slight creasing around Narcissa's eyes. "Oh, dear. I hope I've not upset you?" she asked with mock concern.

Never had they been so direct. Never had their dance been revealed for what it was. "Of course not, Petunia. I imagine he needs all of your attention at the moment. What with that terrible business at the plant," she said loudly enough for those around her to hear.

Petunia's face drained of color.

"Bad form of that stockgirl to claim he'd put his hands . . . well, best not said in polite company." A number of adults standing nearby tittered. "Well, ta!" Narcissa said with a bright smile, not caring a bit as Petunia stalked off in anger.

Narcissa scanned the crowd, finally finding Severus. A creature of habit, he was standing with Draco and Harry, examining a plant leaf while Pansy huffed on the bench beside them.

"No, no, no," Severus barked as Narcissa approached. "It's pronounced Calliandra. Cal-li-an-dra! I thought you were doing your tutorials," he said, as he sneered down at Harry and Draco.

"I am, we are, I mean," Harry barked back. "It's not my fault this one wasn't on any of them!"

Severus's gaze narrowed. "You've become quite churlish, Mr. Potter. I don't like churlish. You've been spending far too much time with my godson."

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance and giggled.

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll have none of that," Severus growled. "Now, pay attention. You must learn to extrapolate. The root of the word is--"

"Severus," Narcissa interrupted, "I need to speak with you. Hello boys, Pansy. Enjoying the party?"

"Yes ma'am," the three murmured.

"Wonderful. Severus?" Narcissa asked as she tugged his upper arm.

"What do you want, Narcissa? I am in the middle of instructing these children on basic skills they should have been taught years ago. Their lack of knowledge is appalling."

"This really isn't the time for that, Severus," Narcissa said through clenched teeth.

Severus took in the too-pale skin, the slightly wide eyes and nodded once. "Boys, young lady, I shall return," Severus said before swooping away.

"Draco, why don't you start opening your gifts? Harry, if you'll help him, please, and Pansy, will you mark who the gifts are from?"

The three children nodded and scampered off to the gifts. Once everyone started "oohing" and "ahhing," Narcissa made her way over to Severus.

"What's happened?" he asked without preamble. His hooded eyes searched Narcissa's frightened gaze.

"Did you know that Trotter Blackmun was released from prison today?"

Severus's mouth fell open. "I did not," he said as he stepped closer. "How did you find out?"

"That vile Dursley woman rubbed it in my face, implying that he'd come after me, or Draco."

"What do you plan to do?"

"I don't know. Nothing, maybe."

"Foolish," Severus hissed.

"Yes, I know what you think. If it were up to you, I'd be living on your property and Draco would be boarding at Wolsford, but I refuse to bow down any more than I must."

"Cissa," Severus whispered, taking her hands in his, "this is no longer about bowing down. If you think there is a real risk, send Draco to Wolsford. I can protect him there."

"I can protect him too," Narcissa whispered.

Severus sighed in exasperation and squeezed her hands before letting go. "Just promise me you'll think about it. Please?"

Narcissa nodded. "We should be getting back to the party."

"Narcissa, wait," Severus said as he stopped Narcissa from leaving. "Lucius was my best friend. He was a good man. A misguided one, but a good one. Yes, he got greedy. Yes, he fell in with the wrong sort. But, he loved you, he loved Draco. That has to count for something."

"Don't. Don't, Severus, please," Narcissa pleaded.

Severus sighed. "I'm staying the weekend. Just in case."

Narcissa nodded.

ssssssssssss

The party had long been over. Harry and Draco were both in their pajamas, sifting through all of Draco's new toys. When Draco turned to the side to put something away, Harry slipped the roll of parchment he'd been hiding into Draco's lap.

Draco turned back in surprise. "What's this?" he asked, as he fingered the parchment scroll.

"Er, Happy Birthday," Harry murmured.

Draco looked at Harry quizzically as he pushed of the ribbon knot and unfurled the parchment. He looked it over, his eyes growing wider by the second. "Harry!" he exclaimed. "Is this what I think it is?"

Harry smiled, thrilled at the way Draco's eyes sparkled with delight. "Yeah. It's a real treasure map. I—I made it for you."

Draco nodded and stared at his treasure map some more before declaring it brilliant. He jumped to his feet, grabbed Harry's hand and dragged him down the stairs. "Mum!" he screamed. "Mu-um, Uncle Severus!"

Draco and Harry barreled into the living room where Narcissa and Severus were huddled together, talking about serious things.

"What is it, Dragon?" Narcissa asked, alarmed. "Did something frighten you? Did you see something?"

"Narcissa, please," Severus whispered.

"No! Look. Look!" Draco said, hopping from foot to foot as he thrust his treasure map in his mother and uncle's direction.

Severus took the parchment and surveyed it. A small smile played at his lips after several seconds. "Seems you've found a treasure map," he said.

"No! Harry made it for me. For my birthday. There's real treasure, Uncle Severus." Turning to his mother, Draco said, "Mum, can we go look for the treasure now?"

"Of course not," she scoffed. "It's late, Draco. You both need your sleep."

"Fine, tomorrow then?"

Narcissa bit her lip. She wasn't about to let Draco out of her sight. Not for a second. "Maybe later Draco. We'll see."

"But, Mum," Draco whined.

"Draco," Severus warned.

"But why?" Draco continued to whine.

"This is not the time for this," Narcissa hissed. "Stop acting like a spoiled child."

Soon Draco, Narcissa and Severus were talking over each other, yelling, stamping feet. Harry retreated farther and farther away from the conflict.

"It's my gift from Harry. You can't keep me from it. I want to find the treasure, and I will," Draco defied.

"I said NO!" Narcissa snapped.

The room went silent, save Draco's gasp. Harry stood in the shadows. Watching. He'd never seen Mrs. Malfoy so angry. It scared him.

Draco's face screwed up in anger, he snatched the treasure map from Severus's hands and ran up the stairs to his room.

"Draco," Narcissa called, running after him.

Severus sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. Harry remained still and (he thought) undetected. Harry stared at the pattern in the Persian rug on the floor, finding himself wondering when the Malfoys had come to own it, wondering whether they'd searched and searched until they found this particular one. He wondered if they'd been happy to finally find it, wondered how many fights, tears, smiles, and laughs the rug had born witness.

"Your clues were quite clever," Severus murmured after several moments.

"What?" Harry said, shaken from his musings.

Severus raised his head. "I said, your clues were quite clever. On the treasure map. Good show, Mr. Potter. A very thoughtful gift."

Harry swallowed and took a few tentative steps from the shadows. "Thank you," he whispered.

Upstairs, Draco and Narcissa continued to quarrel. Harry looked up and bit his lip.

"Don't worry about them," Severus said.

Harry returned his gaze to Severus. He nodded.

"Everything will be fine. All children quarrel with their parents. I'm sure you've had a few rows with your aunt and uncle, yes?"

Harry looked down, back at the pattern on the rug. He could feel Severus's stare boring into him. Instead of answering Severus's question, Harry asked one of his own. "It's just buried in the backyard. The treasure, I mean. What's wrong? Why is she so mad?"

Severus sighed. "Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. And, I'm sure I can convince Narcissa to allow me to supervise your little treasure-hunting expedition," he said with a soft sneer.

Harry nodded. Silence descended between them, the muffled sounds of Draco and Mrs. Malfoy's row punctuating the silence. Harry swallowed. "Er, Calliandra. You were telling us about Calliandra," he said. Plants, Harry had found, were always safe topics. Unlike people, or emotions, plants couldn't hurt you, or harbor ill-intent. And, talking about plants was like talking about the weather—pleasant conversation, but without serious substance. Unless you were talking to Mr. Snape, of course.

Severus perked up, clearly of the same mind as Harry. "So I was," he said, gesturing to the seat beside him.

Harry slipped into the seat and curled his legs beneath him. "Er, calli means beautiful, right?"

"Correct. And andra? Do you know what that means?"

Harry's brows knitted together as he thought for a few moments. "No, sir."

"I don't expect you would. Andra refers to the plant's stamens—the male floral parts."

"Male floral parts?" Harry said with a squeak and a blush.

Severus rolled his eyes. He opened him mouth to speak, but before he could Draco and Narcissa returned to the living room. Both looked as though they'd shed a tear or two.

"Narcissa," Severus said, happy to change the subject, "why don't you let me supervise the boys' treasure hunt tomorrow? I'd like to find a few native sapling specimens to take back to school and I'm sure the boys won't mind if we stop now and then so that I can obtain a cutting."

Draco looked up at Narcissa, pleading with her.

She sighed. "Yes, all right. Besides," she said with a wink to Harry, "it wouldn't do to have all of Harry's hard work go to waste."

Harry blushed and couldn't quite quell his small smile. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was what being part of real family felt like.

Draco crowed with delight and began racing around packing their "provisions," demanding peanut butter and honey sandwiches, apples, juice boxes, spades, torches and anything else he could think of.

Narcissa laughed as she got caught up in Draco's enthusiasm. Even Severus joined in, suggesting oranges were the better choice over apples and pointing out the necessity of a small journal and a few pencils to document the adventure. Harry sat back and watched, chuckled, and looked back down at the rug. He smiled, knowing that he was part of this memory. He felt connected to these people, felt interwoven into the patterns and rhythms of their lives—just as they were woven into his.


	9. Opening and Closing Doors

**A/N: **Thanks to Sansa for the encouragement, the hand-holding, and the fantastic beta work.

Diclaimer: I have no possessory interest in the world of Harry Potter and I certainly make no money from this.

**Chapter 9: Where One Door Opens and The Same One Closes**

Narcissa snapped the morning paper closed and tossed it in the rubbish bin. Anxiety, an ever-present companion as of late, pooled in her chest and coalesced into a tight, burning knot at the latest in a long string of articles about Trotter Blackmun. She ran her hands through her hair and let go a shaky breath. Something caught her eye outside. She stood abruptly and moved to the window, craning and twisting her neck this way and that in an effort to see what, or rather who, was out there. A small thrush flew by before alighting a branch in a nearby tree. Narcissa blinked and shook her head. This was getting out of hand, she thought to herself as dim, early morning light seeped through the window and washed out the kitchen in murky, gray tones.

If the papers were to be believed, Blackmun was now living in Little Whinging and had been for several months. Narcissa was sure he meant to do something. Waiting for it was undoing her. She'd become distracted. Angry. Short-tempered. She looked over her shoulder every time she went out. She had become so overprotective of Draco—keeping him inside, away from strangers and friends alike—that loud rows between them were daily occurrences. Draco didn't understand why he couldn't play with Harry all of the time and Narcissa couldn't bring herself to explain.

When the phone calls started almost a month ago, the ones in which she met only silence on the other end of the line, Narcissa called Severus and requested brochures from Wolsford. Two days later, she'd paid the refundable deposit for the next year and had submitted Draco's application. It didn't hurt to be prepared. Draco was accepted immediately. As was Narcissa's very large check. Despite everything, at the time Narcissa still wasn't convinced that sending Draco away to school was the right thing to do. That was until the day before.

She'd been preparing for Harry's birthday party when she spied a plain note written on thin paper lying closed on the kitchen table. Too busy with decorations, presents and other things, she'd not given it a second glance. While tidying up the kitchen later that night as the boys and Severus played one of Harry's new board games, she'd found the note again. "I'm watching you and the boy. So much like his father, isn't he? You can't keep him inside forever," it said in an inelegant scrawl. It was from Trotter Blackmun, she was sure. A sense of cold dread washed over her. Had he been in the house? Had he been there? Watching them all pretending that nothing was the matter? Knees weak, she fell into the closest chair, gasped, and allowed the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes to fall. She would take no more chances with Draco's safety. Wolsford it was to be. It was for the best. Draco would be safely ensconced at school, Severus could look after him, and she could move to one of the newer gated communities nearby. It would be a fresh start for both of them, one without the specter of Trotter Blackmun nipping at their backs.

The thrush flew away, shaking Narcissa from her early morning musings. How long had she been standing there? "This has to stop," she whispered aloud as she opened the cutlery drawer, fished around, and withdrew the brightly colored Wolford brochures that she'd secreted in the back. She bit her lip as she sat and read them for the hundredth time.

"Mum," a sleepy voice called from the doorway to the kitchen, breaking Narcissa's dark thoughts. "What are you doing?"

Narcissa closed her eyes, steeled herself, and clutched at the brochure full of beautiful pictures of the countryside and studious, freshly-scrubbed young men's faces in deep thought. She turned and smiled at the picture her beautiful boy made in his pajamas. His silky blond hair was mussed and his face was still flushed with sleep. He would fit in well at Wolsford. It was the right decision. She was sure of it, though she didn't understand why her hand was shaking. "Good morning, Dragon. Where's Harry?"

"Still sleeping," Draco said with a yawn as he shuffled forward to the kitchen table. "I think we wore him out."

"Well, it's not everyday that a young man turns eleven. I think he enjoyed the party very much."

Draco nodded. "It was like it was his first birthday party ever, or something. He's very funny sometimes," Draco said, distracted as he sorted through the breakfast pastries and fruit salad on the table.

"Draco, how would you feel about going to Uncle Severus's school?" Narcissa blurted. She winced as the words tumbled out. She'd meant to ease into the conversation.

Draco's hand stopped its rooting. His head snapped up. "Why would I go there? I like Bennington-Bright," he answered, trepidation clear in his voice.

"Yes, I know. But, I was thinking that you would have a much better time of it at Wolsford. You could ride horses everyday, see your godfather, meet other children from all around the world. Wouldn't that be lovely?" Her fever-bright eyes willed Draco to understand, to agree.

Draco's gaze dropped to the table. "What about Harry? Could he come, too?"

Narcissa bit her lip. "Well, that would be up to the Dursleys, I'm afraid. If not, you could see him during all of your breaks. You can write letters to each other. Maybe see each other on the occasional weekend. It wouldn't be terribly different from the way it is now."

Draco traced small circles on the table with his index finger. "I don't want to," he said in a soft, subdued voice. "I want to stay here. With you. With Harry and all of my other friends."

"Don't be so childish," Narcissa huffed, regretting the words as quickly as they'd come. Her nerves were too frayed for this. But, there was nothing for it—she'd gone this far. "Don't look at me that way," she said at Draco's petulant stare. "It's not your decision, really. I've decided that you will go. It is a good opportunity for you and I'll not see you waste it."

"Why did you even ask, then?" Draco asked, his voice rising as the now familiar feeling of anger coursed through him. "It's not like you ask me about anything else. I haven't been allowed to leave the house, practically. I hardly ever get to play with Harry anymore. You don't let me do anything," he yelled. "I don't want to go. You can't make me."

"Oh, yes I can," Narcissa whispered, wondering how on earth this had gotten so far out of hand. "You will go. In two weeks time, you and your godfather will be on your way to Wolsford. That's final. It's not your decision."

Draco pursed his lips and balled his hands into tight fists. "I hate you!" he hissed before turning on his heel and running up the stairs to his room.

Narcissa gasped. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. "I'd rather have you hate me than have you dead," she whispered.

Draco was furious as he ran to his room. How could his mother send him away? How could she? For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what he had done wrong. And now, she was making him leave. He'd have to make new friends and find new places to play. Worse still, it didn't sound like Harry would be with him. His loyal, faithful friend wouldn't be with him. He hated her. He HATED her.

Draco barreled into his room, slammed the door closed and cast about for something that, when thrown against the wall, was guaranteed to make a spectacular crash. He spied his large piggy bank. With a smirk full of as much frustration as anger, he heaved it over his head and readied it for throwing.

"Draco?" a sleepy voice mumbled, stopping Draco short.

Draco stood there, panting and red-faced, holding the piggy bank over his head, staring at Harry. Harry was burrowed under the covers so that only a little tuft of wild, black hair poked out. He rolled over and slowly pulled his head out, as a shy turtle might emerge from its protective shell. Sleepy green eyes met furious gray ones. Draco gasped. Filled with an emotion he couldn't define, he dropped his hands, allowing the piggy bank to land with a soft thud on the thick carpet. He realized in that moment that in two weeks time he was leaving home, leaving his friend. A broken piggy bank wouldn't change that. He glanced at the picture of him and Harry propped on his dresser by two pieces of fool's gold. His arm was slung across Harry's shoulder—both of them beaming with victory after having found the birthday treasure Harry had hidden for him. Draco's gaze returned to Harry. As quick as it had come, his anger abated. Broken piggy banks wouldn't change things. He smiled and made a decision. There would be one last hurrah for Draco and Harry—one last adventure. One last hunt.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked as he sat up and stretched. "Why are you staring at me? Is something wrong?" he asked as he twisted this way and that to see if his pajamas were on backwards.

"Get up and dressed. We're going on a hunt," Draco said.

Harry cocked his head to the side. "You sure? I thought your Mum was being all funny about leaving the house," he said with a yawn.

"We've permission for this, but you're slowing us down. I've been waiting ages for you to get up so we could go," Draco huffed.

Harry looked down at his lap at and bit his lip. "But the Dursleys might come back at any time today. I don't want to keep them waiting."

Draco dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "They won't be back until tonight. I heard Mum tell Uncle Severus during your party. Now come on, Harry. Hurry up!"

"You're in a right mood," Harry growled as he stood and fumbled for clean clothes.

"Yes, and if you would just hurry, it wouldn't have to get any worse."

"Fine, fine," Harry mumbled as he dressed and ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to tame it.

While Harry dressed, Draco filled a small rucksack with things he thought might be useful for the day. "I thought we'd go over to Howlflax Lake," Draco said with nonchalance as he packed some candy he'd squirreled away several weeks ago.

"Howlflax Lake?" Harry asked as he paused and turned to face Draco. "That's at least two kilometers away. Are you sure we're allowed?"

"Yes!" Draco snapped. "Why are you so concerned, anyway? What are you, a girl or something?"

Anger and hurt coursed through Harry. He snatched his small knapsack, frayed from years of use, and pulled on his trainers in a few quick, rough tugs. "Piss off," he growled, surprised at his boldness. He'd heard the older boys at school say that when they were upset. This seemed the ideal situation to use it. His hand grasped the doorknob. "And I'm not a bloody girl," he said over his shoulder as he yanked the door open, intending to leave.

"Don't go!" Draco pleaded as he pushed the door closed and pulled Harry away. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Harry looked up with wary eyes and stared at Draco, who stared back with repentance and pleading in his eyes. Harry sighed. "I'm not a bloody girl. Don't you ever call me that again."

Draco nodded. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It's just that we have to leave now, Harry. We have to do this today."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Draco." He hesitated. "What's going on?"

"I just . . ." Draco shook his head. He had two weeks to tell Harry he was leaving. Now wasn't the time. "I just want to go play. It's been ages since I've been out. Besides it's just the lake."

Harry bit his bottom lip. He nodded.

"Brilliant," Draco said, grabbing Harry's hand and pulling him down the stairs. "Wait here," he said once they'd reached the foyer. "I'll just tell Mum we're going."

"Yeah, okay."

Draco walked to the kitchen. He thrust his chin out and crossed his arms over his chest. "Mum, Harry and I are going outside to play. We're going to play in his backyard for the day."

Narcissa swallowed at the defiance in her son's eyes. She didn't want him to leave at all, but after the disastrous morning they'd had, perhaps it was better for both of them to put some distance between them. "Do not take that tone with me, Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed, yet his eyes pleaded to be let out.

"Fine. You and Harry can play outside."

"We'll have lunch at Harry's. No use calling us in."

"I--" _don't think that's such a good idea_, Narcissa meant to say. But as Draco pursed his lips and curled his small hands into tiny fists, she gave in. She couldn't handle another row this morning. "That should be fine," she whispered. She smiled, hoping it would be returned. It wasn't. Draco turned to leave, but Narcissa stopped him. "I'm sorry about this morning, but this really is for the best."

Draco stared at her before turning and leaving.

"The headmaster would like this faxed to him today if possible, Cissa," said Severus, dropping the student questionnaire in front of her.

Narcissa sighed. She looked up at the clock. It was just past noon. She'd spent all morning working with Severus on filling out all of Draco's new school's forms. "Right," she said. "Severus, will you collect the boys? They should be having lunch at Harry's. Draco is terribly cross with me about this. I think it would be better if you brought him back."

Severus nodded. "And what of Mr. Potter?"

"Bring him along, of course. He can't be left in that house alone." She shook her head. "I still can't believe the nerve of the Dursleys—deciding to go on holiday just two days before Harry's birthday."

Severus's expression remained impassive. "They really are the worst sort," he swore under his breath.

Narcissa smiled. "Careful, Severus. You're letting your compassion show again. Someone might think you actually care for Harry's well being."

Severus gave a sneer that could curdle cream before stalking off to collect Draco and Harry. Narcissa snickered and continued to review the school forms she needed to prepare.

A knock at the door startled her. Thinking that perhaps the Dursleys had come home sooner than expected she swore under her breath, wondering what was keeping Severus and the boys.

"I didn't expect you so early," she began as she opened the door. The words died on her lips as a pair of beady hazel eyes stared into her soft, blue ones. Narcissa gasped, took a step back and tried to slam the door.

"Easy, love," Trotter Blackmun said as he forced the door to remain open. "Where's that famous Malfoy courtesy I've heard so much about?"

"Get away from here!" Narcissa shrieked as her gaze darted out the door, searching for Severus and the boys.

Trotter turned around and laughed. "Whatcha looking for, love? That little boy of yours and his black-haired tag-a-long? Harry's, his name, right? Thick as thieves, those two. Sorta like me 'n Lucy. For a while there, anyway. Poor, poor Lucy . . . shame what happened to him. He shoulda known better," Trotter growled.

Narcissa's heart was beating wildly and her limbs felt as though they'd turned to stone. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. "What do you want?" she asked in a harsh whisper.

"Just came for a friendly visit, I did. Just thought I'd make young Master Malfoy's acquaintance. Tell him about his old dad—the real story, mind you. Tell him the truth instead of them fairy stories you've been filling his head with, no doubt."

Narcissa's head swung around wildly, desperate for any sign of Draco and Harry. Her hand clutched at the door, unable to move. "What have you done? Where's my son?"

Trotter leaned in with a leer. "Now, now, Narci. Just what kind of mum are you? Don't know where your boy is, do you? If I were you, I'd be keeping a better eye on little Draco."

A strangled cry left Narcissa's lips.

Trotter laughed, winked, and leapt from the porch, running away. Narcissa took after him, but it was no use. Trotter jumped into the passenger side of a waiting car. The tires screeched as it peeled off, Trotter's malicious cackle hanging in the air. Narcissa screamed and made to run after the car, sure that Trotter Blackmun had done something horrible to Draco.

"Narcissa!" Severus said, as he ran to her. He grabbed her round the waist and held her tight as she struggled to get away. "Narcissa," he called again. "Stop these hysterics this instant! What's wrong? What's happened?"

Narcissa fell limp in Severus' arms. He relaxed his grip and she twisted around and grabbed his face with her hands, ignoring his hiss as she jerked his head forward. "Tell me you've found them. Tell me they were in the backyard playing. Tell me you have them," she screamed as she shook him hard.

With great effort, Severus pulled Narcissa's hands away, turned her around and pulled her along, making their way back to the house. He noticed a few curious neighbors staring at them. He sneered in their direction before whispering to Narcissa, "Stop making a scene. They weren't there. Not in the house either. What's gotten into you?"

"Trotter Blackmun," she gasped. "He has them."

"What?" Severus said, stopping them. "What are you talking about?"

"Blackmun. He came to the house. Said he wanted to tell Draco all about Lucius. He knew about Harry, too. He knew his name, Severus. He's got them! He's got them both!"

Severus swallowed and closed his eyes. He nodded and clutched Narcissa to him. "This is what we are going to do. We are going to go inside. I'm going to call the police. You are going to tell them everything you know with a minimum of hysterics. We've got to tell them everything we can, Narcissa, about the boys and Blackmun. I need you to remember what he was wearing, how long he was here, how he left. Can you do that?"

Narcissa sniffed and nodded.

"Let's go," Severus said as he pulled Narcissa into the house.

"Do you think people can stay friends from far away?" Draco asked as his feet made lazy circles in the lake. They'd spent all day exploring trails and little coves around the lake. They'd played hide and seek in the small forest surrounding the lake, had swordfights with sticks while pretending to be brave knights fighting invisible foes, and had climbed trees pretending they were pirates, the forest's soft undergrowth their ship, the trees their masts. The late afternoon found them perched on an old dock, enjoying some sandwiches Draco had purchased for them earlier in the day. The sun hung heavy and orange in the sky.

"That's an odd question," Harry murmured as he swallowed a bite of his sandwich.

Draco shrugged, his lazy gesture belying the tenseness of his body and the sincerity of his question. "Still, though," he said.

Harry thought about it. "Yeah, I suppose. I mean, you can write letters and ring the person up when you want to talk. And, there's always visits. Why are you asking?"

Draco shrugged again. "No reason," he murmured. Harry said nothing in return. The silence was more comfortable than it ought to have been, Draco thought. He sprawled across the dock, allowing his fingers to brush through the water. his head dipped down as he stared at the gentle lapping of the lake. He caught a small stick drifting by and began dragging it back and forth in the water.

Harry sighed. "You've been tetchy all day, you know. Is it because we didn't find any treasure?"

Draco dropped the stick and scrambled to his knees. He grasped Harry's hands. "Today has been brilliant."

Harry laughed nervously and tugged his hands away. "You are very strange, Draco Malfoy." Harry looked away from the intensity of Draco's gaze. His eyes flicked to the sun. "Come on. We should head back. The Dursleys will probably be back in a few hours."

Draco nodded and watched as Harry stood. He wasn't ready for this adventure to end, though. It was the last one they would have, he was sure of it, as only an eleven-year-old child could be. As Harry bent over to gather his sandwich wrapping, Draco had the most wicked idea. "Yeah, but not before a swim!" he said. With a smirk, he pushed Harry, who lost his balance and tipped over the side of the dock, landing in the lake with a loud splash.

A few seconds later, with arms and legs flapping and flailing, Harry broke the surface of the water. He was sputtering. His glasses were askew and his face was red with embarrassment.

Draco couldn't stop laughing at the sight. He held his sides and laughed like he hadn't in a long time. Therefore, he was unprepared for the sharp tug on his ankles, tipping him forward into the lake as well.

"What the--," Draco sputtered before landing in the water.

Harry laughed as Draco's head shot up through the water. "You're right. We can't go home before a swim."

"I'm going to get you for that!" Draco shrieked, taking off after Harry.

Harry laughed and swam away from Draco. Soon, both boys were wrestling in the water, dunking each other and swimming back and forth. They laughed and taunted and teased and for a moment, Draco forgot that he was soon leaving his friend.

They paddled and played for nearly an hour before, exhausted, they hauled themselves out of the water and lay on the dock, letting the warmth from the boards and sinking sun keep the chill at bay. Both of them were soaking wet, covered in mud, had scraped knees and sunburns and were deliriously happy. They lay there for a while, each lost in their own thoughts, before Harry sat up. "We really need to head back," he said, sad to see the magic of the day waning.

Draco nodded. He sat up and stared hard out over the lake, not ready to leave but knowing it was time to go. He stood and helped Harry to his feet. "You know you're my friend, right?" Draco asked.

Harry gave him a curious look. "Yes. I know that, you prat."

"Nothing will ever change that," Draco said softly.

Harry swallowed and nodded. The intensity of Draco's stare made him uncomfortable again. He stared back over the lake before softly punching Draco in the arm. "Now who's being the bloody girl?"

Both boys dissolved into giggles, the seriousness of the moment passing, and they began the walk home.

There had been no sightings of Blackmun since he'd left Magnolia Crescent earlier that afternoon. There'd been no sightings of Draco or Harry since that morning. The sun had finally set. Hope was waning. Narcissa huddled on the couch, staring at the Persian rug beneath her feet. She remembered the day she and Lucius had purchased it. They'd fought viciously over the extravagance of it. But Narcissa wanted it. She'd insisted that they needed it. Lucius had argued for the less expensive reproduction, citing that no one would be able to tell the difference. "I will know the difference," she'd said, followed up with the reminder that they were Malfoys and Malfoys had certain appearances to maintain. Lucius had relented and purchased it for her, as he had with everything Narcissa insisted they needed.

The carpet's colors bled before her eyes. The patterns swirled into a grotesque parody. She hated that carpet. That carpet, and all of her other expensive things, had led Lucius to throw his lot in with Blackmun, Narcissa was sure of it. For the glory of things, for possessions, she might lose her son. Her eyes fluttered closed as guilt and bile rose in her throat.

The clock tick-tocked relentlessly in the corner. Severus was in the other room making calls, shouting occasionally, describing the boys to the person on the other end of the line. But it was the low murmur of laughter from the remaining detectives leaning against the wall opposite her that caught Narcissa's attention. Her stare, sharp and fierce, cowed the young detectives. With sheepish smiles, they moved to the kitchen, perhaps to laugh with less guilt.

The beginning frenzy of activity and investigation had dwindled to this—her sitting on the couch regretting purchases made, Severus shouting in frustration, young detectives and officers giggling in the kitchen about something unrelated. And why shouldn't they laugh at inconsequential things? This wasn't their house, their son, or their guilt over bloody carpets. She should never have let Draco go outside. She should never have left them alone for so long. What kind of mother was she? She'd favored carpets over children. She'd craved Draco's acceptance over protecting him.

Her stare returned to the carpet as she toed an intricate pattern over and over again. Anything—she would have given anything, done anything, to see Draco walk through the front door. Alive.

Draco and Harry were almost home. Even though they were tired, hungry, cold, and a bit worse for wear, they were in good spirits as they joked about the day's adventures. As they rounded the corner the flicker of lights from police cars in front of Draco's house stopped them dead.

Draco was seized with the sudden, indefatigable fear that his mother was dead. "Mum," he said in a strangled whisper, before he took off at a run. Harry followed, only a few steps behind.

"Mum!" Draco whined as he got closer. How could he have left without telling her? Why had he been so rude and churlish with her? He couldn't lose her. He'd go to the bloody school. He'd even pretend to be happy about it. He just couldn't lose his Mum.

"Mum!" he cried as his feet pounded up the steps and he threw open the front door.

"MUM!" he screamed as he tore into the house, gasping for breath, wild-eyed and searching for his mother.

"Draco!" Narcissa cried as a blond blur burst through the front door. She couldn't believe it. He was home. He was home! She ran to him, gathered him in her arms and clutched him to her. "Draco, Draco, Draco," she whispered over and over as she sat and pulled him into her lap. Severus ran to the room and began barking questions, as did the detectives. Draco and Narcissa paid little mind. All that mattered to each of them was that the other was safe.

During all of the commotion, Harry, panting from running after Draco, slipped through the open door. At the sight of Draco and Mrs. Malfoy huddled on the floor, Mr. Snape leaning over them while barking questions and clutching at them, and policemen swarming everywhere, Harry went pale and shuttled to the far corner of the room, hiding himself in the silence and shadows. He didn't like all of the yelling, all of the crying. He shivered and pulled his arms around himself, watching the scene unfold.

"Severus, deal with the policemen," Narcissa snapped, at long last convinced that Draco was home.

Severus said something, causing the detectives to back away and cease their rapid-fire questioning.

Narcissa pulled away from Draco, noticing for the first time that he was wet and dirty, his hair was mussed and he had scrapes across his arms. "What happened, Dragon? How did you get away? Did he hurt you? Did that awful man hurt you?"

"What man?" Draco said, before he had his wits about him.

One of the policemen stepped forward and crouched down before Severus could stop him. "Draco, my name is Officer Phillips. When your mum couldn't find you, she called us to help."

Draco's cheeks colored and he looked down, having realized what had happened. "Oh," he said.

Officer Phillips withdrew a picture from his pocket. "Draco, did this man take you and your friend? Did he hurt you at all? This is really important, Draco. I need you to tell me the truth."

Draco stared at the picture. He swallowed and shook his head. "No, sir," he whispered.

"But you're hurt, and cold and dirty. What happened? Where have you been?" Narcissa fretted as she ran her hands over Draco, assessing for injuries. "It was his henchmen, then," Narcissa barked at the detective. "He's hurt, can't you see? Obviously someone took him. Why are you here? You should be out finding the men who did this." Narcissa, not allowing the detective a chance to respond, turned to Severus as she pulled Draco even closer. "That's it. I'm calling the solicitor tomorrow. I'm selling this bloody house and moving to Kilcrestly Estates straight away." Finally, she turned back to Draco. "Now, you must tell us, Draco. What happened? The detectives need to know everything."

"Er," Draco said, his cheeks coloring more. "No one took us, Mum. I swear."

"Where have you been then? Why weren't you in the backyard?"

"We went to the lake," Draco said in a bare whisper.

The ensuing silence was sudden and complete.

Narcissa stiffened. "I see," she said after a long while.

Officer Phillips twisted around and exchanged a glance with Severus. Severus nodded at the unspoken question. "Boys, it looks everything is going to be fine here. Why don't we take our leave," Phillips said to the remaining detectives. There were a few general murmurs of assent as the other officers gathered their belongings, made calls to headquarters and began leaving. Phillips stood and took Severus aside as Narcissa and Draco had a whispered conversation. "Looks like no more cause for worry. I think the boys may have gone off playing for the day and didn't say anything," Phillips said.

Severus nodded. "Indeed."

Phillips handed him the picture. "I've got what I need from Draco. But, as long as I'm here, I should talk to the young man standing in the corner over there. Is he yours?"

Severus's head snapped to the corner Phillips was gesturing towards. Harry stood in the corner, his head down, shivering, and with his arms wrapped tightly around him. His knees were scraped and bloody. Swathes of dirt covered his legs and arms. When had Harry come in? How had they missed that? "No, he's not," Severus whispered. "He belongs to the neighbors. Unfortunately, they are out of town until tomorrow."

Phillips nodded. "Right. No need to really talk to him, really. Glad the boys are home safe."

"Yes, we are as well," Severus said, thanking the detective as he showed him out.

He returned to the living room a few minutes later, to see that Harry had moved from the corner and was now standing next to Draco. Both boys had their heads hanging low while Narcissa paced back and forth.

"What were you thinking, running off like that?" Narcissa snapped. The shock had worn off, it seemed.

"I'm sorry Mum," Draco said piteously. "Sorry Mrs. Malfoy," Harry mumbled, while shooting Draco a dirty look. He was furious with Draco.

"Sorry isn't good enough," Narcissa hissed. "Do you have any idea how worried I was, Draco? Do you?" Narcissa cried as she pulled Draco to her again and hugged him close. "I am very disappointed in you," she said.

Draco sniffed. "I'm sorry," he wailed. "I didn't mean to scare you. I—_we_—Harry hadn't ever been to the lake." Draco shot Harry a brief look before continuing. "He really wanted to go, he begged me in fact, and you would have said no!"

"What!" Harry exclaimed, furious that Draco would lie about him. He was just like Aunt Petunia, Harry thought.

Narcissa's eyes cut to Harry in that moment. She was certain that Harry had played no part in the decision to go to the lake. The venomous snarl on his face as he stared at Draco confirmed it. Best to keep them apart, she decided.

"Right," she said. "Upstairs and into the bath immediately," she said to Draco with a firm smack to his bottom. "I'll not have you catch your death just when I've gotten you back. We'll get you fixed up and into bed. We will discuss your punishment in the morning."

Draco nodded as fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He turned to trudge up the stairs. Before he could get too far, Narcissa pulled him back and gave him a fierce hug, kissing him on the head and murmuring how much she loved him and how scared she'd been before letting him go.

"Severus," Narcissa said. "A word, please."

Severus and Narcissa left the room, leaving Harry standing there, head down and shivering. "I want you to take Draco with you tomorrow. I think it's for the best. Please don't argue with me," she said, staving off Severus's argument. At his reluctant nod, she continued on. "Please help him upstairs. He's got a rather awful scratch across his arm. I'll get him packed with what he needs for the next week or so and will send his other things by post." Severus nodded and turned to head up the stairs. Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't think she could trust herself not to break down into a blobby mass of tears if she'd gone up to help Draco.

Harry, having no idea what to do while Mrs. Malfoy and Mr. Snape were talking, just kept staring at the carpet. He hoped to God he hadn't left muddy footprints behind on top of everything else. Beyond that, he was angry with Draco. Really, really angry. How could Draco do that to him? Why would he blame him? Harry was sure that Mrs. Malfoy believed Draco. That's probably what she and Mr. Snape were discussing. His punishment; perhaps they were even talking about how best to tell the Dursleys. At the feel of Narcissa's soft squeeze to his shoulder, he gasped and looked up.

"Harry," Narcissa whispered. "I need to talk with you about something and then we'll get you cleaned up, okay?"

Harry nodded, fearing the worst.

Narcissa began pacing again. "Harry, you won't be able to come over any more."

Harry's mouth fell open. A shocking cold whirled through him as his stomach plummeted. All of this because of the lake?

Narcissa continued on, not noticing Harry's distress. "I'm sure Draco's told you that he's leaving for boarding school. After what happened today, I've decided he needs to leave straight away."

"What?" he blurted. Mrs. Malfoy didn't seem to hear him. She was pacing back and forth like she'd done before, not really paying attention to Harry. He felt a bit numb. Draco was leaving. Was it because of Harry? Did he have to leave early because of what Harry had supposedly done? Hang on—Draco knew. He'd known he was leaving and hadn't said a word to Harry. How long had Draco known? Had he known at the end of school? Had he known the day before during Harry's birthday party? Betrayal and hurt joined the lingering anger, seeping through the cold and causing his cheeks to burn and his hands to curl into small fists.

"I'm afraid there won't be time for a proper goodbye tomorrow. Of course, you can say goodbye tonight," Narcissa continued on, oblivious to Harry.

"No," Harry blurted, blinded by his anger.

Narcissa stopped pacing and stared at Harry. Surely she'd misunderstood. "But, Harry-"

"No," he whispered.

Narcissa sighed. She was not in the mood to argue with a hysterical adolescent. Harry needed a hot bath, warm clothes and a good meal. She was sure he would change his mind once he didn't look and feel like a bedraggled cat. "Let's get you out of these cold, wet clothes and get you cleaned up. It looks as though you brought half of the lake back with you."

Harry felt as though he'd been stung. It was about him, then. She believed Draco.

"We can use the bath down here. Do you have a clean change of clothes?"

Harry shook his head 'no.'

"I'll just run up and get a few things, then."

Harry nodded. He returned his gaze to the carpet. He was confused and hurt. More than that, he was ashamed that Mrs. Malfoy believed what Draco had said. Draco wasn't his friend after all, it seemed.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up again and blinked. Mrs. Malfoy had towels, what looked like a small first aid kit and a change of clothes in her hands. When had she left?

Narcissa bit her lip. Harry looked awfully pale and disoriented. Perhaps that explained his bizarre reaction to saying goodbye to Draco. Worried that he was in some sort of shock, she put her arm around him and led him to the downstairs bath. "Come, Harry. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Harry nodded as he let himself be led away. He heard Mrs. Malfoy start the bath and smelled the apple scented bubble bath she added. Apple scented steam billowed in the small room, taking some of the bite out of the chill.

He felt her remove his glasses and sit him down on a small stool as she pulled off his worn trainers and socks. But it wasn't until he felt his shirt being lifted and pulled over his head that his brain finally caught up with what was happening and why this wasn't a good idea.

"No," he cried as he struggled to pull his shirt down. At Mrs. Malfoy's stunned expression, Harry elaborated. "I—I can . . . you don't have to help me. I'm sure Draco needs you," he blurted as he tried to tug the shirt from her grasp. "Thanks for the towels and the clean clothes. You don't have to stay."

"Don't be silly, Harry. Severus is helping Draco and I'm helping you. I daresay you are not in any condition to do this and I want to make sure you're not hurt anywhere you can't see. Now, let's get this shirt off and get you into the bath, yes?" she said as she tugged the shirt away and began pulling it off.

"No, please," Harry said as he struggled to keep Mrs. Malfoy from taking his shirt off. It was no use, however. He felt the shirt pull free. For a few moments he thought, maybe, she wouldn't notice. At her gasp, he closed his eyes, knowing what she saw. He knew the small ring of bruises around the upper part of his right arm was still there. He was sure she'd seen the fading ones that decorated his collarbone on both sides as well. This day could not have gotten any worse. Not only did she think he was some sort of ruffian whose behavior required her to send her son away to school right away, but she now knew about his punishments. She'd know that he was as awful as she thought.

He felt her tentative touch and blurted out, "I fell." He opened his eyes and stared hard and said again, "I fell," desperate for her to believe him, hoping that she would think anything other than that he was an unruly troublemaker.

Narcissa withdrew her hand. She knew these bruises hadn't come from a fall. Staring her in the face was proof of what she'd long suspected. The timing could not have been worse.

"I fell," Harry said again, though more softly this time.

Narcissa closed her eyes. She had a decision to make in that moment—one that she wouldn't understand the full ramifications of until years later. She shook her head, decision made. Draco had to be her priority at the moment. She did not have it in her to ask Harry about the bruises or to tell him what she'd long suspected. No, right now she had only the capacity to keep one child safe and that was Draco. Once Draco was away, she lied to herself, she would confront the Dursleys.

"I fell," Harry said again in a whisper

His voice pleaded with her to believe him, but something altogether different flashed in his eyes, betraying him. Narcissa had to look away as she nodded her acceptance. "You should be more careful," she said haltingly before turning back to him. His eyes had dulled, she noticed. Betrayal of a different sort resided there. For a moment, at least, and then it was gone. Narcissa convinced herself that she was seeing things. She convinced herself that the bruises weren't that bad; that, given Harry's pale complexion, he could have gotten them from someone helping him up as he fell.

"Let's get you in the bath," she whispered. She needed to be out of that room. "Can you wash up on your own, then?"

Harry opened his mouth to ask why she wasn't staying, but he closed it again. "Yes, ma'am," he said softly, watching her as she stood. She seemed to wrestle with herself about something before eventually slipping through the door and closing it behind her.

Harry sunk down into the water, expecting to feel pleased. She'd believed him. Instead, he felt cold and a bit empty. The tap dripped, the sounds of the splashing water loud in the small space. He stared at the closed door. Why he was unable to look away, he didn't understand.

Harry emerged from the washroom clean, dry and dressed in warm clothes. He'd put plasters on a few of his scrapes and left the rest alone. He brought out his wet clothing, balled up and ready for washing. Mrs. Malfoy was in the kitchen, staring out of the window.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" he murmured.

She turned, as if shaken from something. "The Dursleys are home. I'll walk you over," she said in a stiff voice, forgetting about convincing Harry to say goodbye to Draco.

Harry swallowed. She seemed angry. Finally, she seemed angry. He'd expected it. He hung his head and nodded.

When they reached the Dursleys, Narcissa turned. Her eyes met Harry's for a moment and then, as if disgusted, she turned her gaze to a point just above him and to the left. Aunt Petunia opened the door, gushing at Narcissa and ignoring Harry. Harry didn't pay attention to that, however. His gaze was fixed firmly on Mrs. Malfoy. She seemed to want to say something to Aunt Petunia, but didn't. Harry didn't understand why she didn't tell his aunt what a horrid little boy he'd been—getting Draco in trouble, dragging him to the lake, getting the police involved. But she didn't, even though she couldn't bring herself to look at him either. This was it, then, she was just ready to wash her hands of him. She hadn't believed him about falling after all. Harry dropped his head.

"Petunia," Narcissa began, as if she meant to announce something.

"Narcissa," Petunia responded, her eyebrow arched, waiting for whatever Narcissa was going to say.

Narcissa licked her lips and her gaze dropped to Harry's once more. For an instant, she thought about telling Petunia what she saw, what she suspected. "I—the boys . . . they played down at the lake today. Harry got a little banged up. Some bruises and things," she said, looking significantly at Petunia.

"Yes?" Petunia asked, her face betraying nothing.

Narcissa swallowed. "Nothing . . . I . . . just wanted to make you aware," she murmured. She would confront them later, she told herself; when there was more time, when she didn't have to worry about Draco.

"Thank you for your concern," Petunia said in a tight voice as her hand grabbed for Harry's shoulder and pulled him in the house.

Harry didn't look up; he was waiting for whatever Mrs. Malfoy was going to say next.

"Well, I should be getting back," Narcissa said as she turned and left, the click of the Dursleys' door closing screaming at her in the silence.

Harry hovered behind the wax myrtles dividing the Dursleys' lawn from Draco's. It was early, the pale light coloring everything in shades of pale violet and icy blue. He had a small spade in his hand and had laid other gardening items to the side of him. He bit his lip as he looked back at the Dursleys' house. He was sure they were still asleep, but had prepared the ruse of getting an early start on his gardening chores should any of them wander out. He'd been standing there for nearly half an hour. He was sure Draco hadn't left yet—both Mrs. Malfoy's and Mr. Snape's cars were still in the drive.

Why he was out there--posed in this ridiculous half-crouch, a spade in his hand, hovering-- he still couldn't quite work out. His head hurt from all of the confusion. He was angry with Draco. He was hurt. He was ashamed of what Mrs. Malfoy thought of him. But he was going to miss Draco. Out of some perverse sense of voyeurism, he had to watch Draco leave. Maybe Draco would see him standing there, would run to him and tell him how sorry he was. Maybe Draco would tell his mother that he couldn't leave. Maybe Mrs. Malfoy would sweep him up into a hug like she'd given Draco the night before and tell him that he—no . . . Harry wouldn't even let himself dream of such possibilities.

The familiar snap of the Malfoys' back door shook Harry back to the present. He crept closer, his small face poking between the shrubs. Draco looked sleepy as he shuffled towards the backseat of Mr. Snape's car. Mr. Snape and Mrs. Malfoy were saying something—Harry couldn't quite make it out. Suitcases were loaded into the boot. Mrs. Malfoy gathered Draco into a fierce hug, kissed him on the head and murmured something to him. She let him go and ushered him to the backseat. Draco looked over towards the Dursleys' house. Harry's breath caught in his throat. He gathered his courage and was about to step out from behind the bushes, to show Draco that he was there, but before he could, Draco turned away and settled himself into the backseat. Harry almost flung himself from behind the bushes anyway. Maybe he could just go to Draco instead? By the time he'd mustered his courage, however, it was too late. The car started and began driving away.

Narcissa and Harry both watched as Mr. Snape and Draco drove down Magnolia Crescent. Both were pensive and sad, and not for disparate reasons. But where one saw the door to opportunity opening, the other saw it shut; firmly closed this time.


	10. Return of the Prodigal

AN: Thanks to snottygrrl and Sansa for their outstanding beta work on this. 

**Disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and to all those whom she has licensed that world. I'm not on that list. I make no money from this, nor do I wish to.

CHAPTER 10: RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 

_Four years later_

Draco Malfoy was grateful for two things at the moment, aspirin and sunglasses. He had a terrible hangover and was due to see his mother in less than ten minutes. Not a good combination, Draco thought as he stood in baggage claim, looking over his fellow weary travelers and immediately assigning them to particular classes based on their clothing and the relative shabbiness of their luggage. At fifteen, he reeked of the kind of young, intemperate aristocracy that could only be cultivated through years of elite boarding school attendance. He picked a piece of invisible lint from his cashmere jumper while checking his vintage watch for the third time. It had been his grandfather's or great-uncle's, or something like that. Draco didn't much care—he just knew it was distinctive, rare, and expensive.

A loud, garbled voice over the public address system brought his hangover to the fore. He winced and tightened his grip on his butter-soft monogrammed leather valise. He smiled—if a bit grimly—at the memories of the previous night. It was the end of term at Wolsford and he and his dorm mates had thrown a spectacular party, as was their tradition. It helped, of course, that Blaise's parents owned a small cottage near Wolsford and that year tens had off-campus privileges. Otherwise, their alcoholic consumption would have been near nil. Even better was the fact that his godfather had already left for a three-week botany conference in Chile, so there was no one watching to make sure he stayed out of trouble. Not that that really stopped him, mind you. He just didn't have to be as careful.

Draco sighed. He missed his friends already. It had been a brilliant party. Draco smiled as he remembered watching Ron fumble his way with bossy Hermione Granger. It was endearing, really, the way he stammered and went red in the face every time she was around. Of course, anyone was better than that Lavender Brown bint—lips too glossy, perfume that made one wheeze, breasts unnaturally large, and a giggle that would make a hyena cry. Draco shuddered. Girls like that made him consider putting off sex altogether.

Thank god he'd found Jordan Richcourt. Otherwise, he'd be a simpering virgin wondering what all the fuss was about. Trim and athletic with short, sassy black hair and small breasts, Jordan was straightforward, confident and wasn't interested in gossipy small talk. A wildcat in bed, she didn't need warming up and never engaged in ridiculous sentimentality or teary declarations of love afterwards like the Lavender Browns of the world. Jordan had been the perfect friend to fuck when the mood struck him. Too bad she was leaving Collenton, the sister school to Wolsford, for some exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. There were so few girls like her. Draco suspected that his sexual activity was about to enter a prolonged dry spell

He checked his watch again. Almost time, then. He wasn't sure why he had agreed to come home for the summer. No, that wasn't true. He'd missed his mother. He'd seen her when she'd come for visits on parents' day and over the summers for their extravagant vacations, but he'd not "come home" before now. Feeling a bit nostalgic, he smiled at a tow-headed boy stamping his foot and demanding something from his mother. His eyes drifted over to a young, sullen looking man leaning against one of the brick posts. His jumper matched his eyes perfectly, Draco thought, and seemed to make his skin glow. The man caught Draco looking at him and smiled. Draco smiled back, fighting the urge to walk over and compliment the man on his jumper. It had obviously been tailored to fit him, showing off his best assets. He thought to ask the man for the name of his tailor, but the man moved away after hoisting his baggage from the automated carousel and strolling out of the airport. Draco watched him the entire way, telling himself that the man was very lucky to have such a fine tailor.

The loudspeaker drew his attention away again. He sighed and looked down at his own coordinated collection of baggage. As the time for his mother's arrival drew closer, he wished he'd agreed to meet her somewhere less conspicuous. He knew she'd make some silly scene, cooing over him, calling him dragon. He shuddered and scuffed his feet across the floor in a display of petulance before he remembered who he was. He stood straighter and looked around, making sure no one of importance had seen his momentary lapse.

"There you are! My dragon," Narcissa gushed as she swept Draco into her arms and gave him a crushing hug.

Startled, Draco tried to pull away. "Mum, please," Draco said, as he glanced around self-consciously.

"Oh, stop it," Narcissa said, refusing to let go. "It's been months since I've seen you. Let's have a look, then," she said as she held Draco out from her and eyed him up and down. "You've grown, so. I can't believe how you've grown."

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Mum, please," he whispered again, a faint blush creeping across his pale skin.

"Oh, all right. Let's get you home," Narcissa said with a chuckle.

"Nice," Draco said, admiring their new house. Well, not so new, but it was the first time Draco had seen it. They'd moved from Magnolia Crescent right after he'd left for Wolsford. He'd never understood the sudden need to move. He recalled something about a crazy man running around kidnapping children, but that had never explained the move, especially since he'd been shipped off to Wolsford the day after the incident at the lake. He felt a stab in his gut at that. He hadn't thought of the lake in years. Christ, his head hurt.

"Your room is up the stairs and to the left. I know you've just gotten home, Draco, but there are a number of boxes full of your old things. I wasn't sure what to do with them. I was hoping you'd sort them out."

Draco sighed. He wanted a nap, not the task of sorting out boxes of old junk that he wouldn't even remember. "Can't it wait, Mum?"

"Sure," Narcissa said brightly. "You'll just have to sleep on the floor until then."

Draco rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he stomped up the stairs.

His room was fine, if not a bit sterile. There were two neatly packed boxes on his bed. He supposed he could have moved them, but he figured it was worth getting the job done right away.

"Okay," he said to himself. "Sorting through worthless junk I don't remember—can't wait." He grabbed the first box and started rooting through. As he suspected, it was filled with junk. Toys he no longer wanted, books he had no desire to read, and long forgotten school papers and drawings. He quickly disposed of the first box and delved into the second, finding the same things. Sighing irritably, he moved one of the boxes, only to drop it on the floor, causing the contents to spill out.

"Fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, his headache now pounding and his patience worn thin.

He leaned over and began shoving things back into the box when he stopped. Underneath a sheaf of old school papers was a familiar little lidded tin. Its gold paint was now chipped and faded in spots, but still whispered of treasures and secrets. Draco lifted the can and sat on his bed for several long moments before opening the lid. First the lake and now this. Draco stared up at the ceiling and muttered something rather untoward to God, the fates, and serendipity.

Sighing, he returned his attention to the tin. There was little inside, but what was there brought back a torrent of memories he'd put away a long time ago. His finger slid across an old photo of two grinning boys, muddy, scraped and victorious. Draco, the taller of the two, had his arm wrapped protectively around the smaller, scruffier one. Harry. Draco was assaulted with memories of play days, treasure hunts, chocolate chip pancake breakfasts, sleepovers and secrets. Of Harry's shy smile, his odd little quirks and his messy, black hair. He remembered those brilliant green eyes that were unlike any he'd ever seen before or since. Not so much for their color, Draco thought, but for what they were capable of expressing.

Underneath the picture was the true treasure, though. A small, gray stone, worn smooth over time, lay nestled among the bits of fool's gold Harry had heaped in the small can as a birthday gift one year. Draco clutched at the little gray stone and closed his eyes. He'd thought of Harry so often that first term away. Truth be told, many of those thoughts—at least at first—had been very, very unkind. He'd gotten over his hurt and had written silly, little boy letters to Harry that went unanswered. Eventually, he made new friends and had new experiences and forgot Harry Potter. It was amazing that, even now, after so much time, it still hurt that his best friend hadn't said goodbye.

Draco sighed and threw the stone back in the lidded tin. "Not today. I cannot deal with you today," he said as he shoved the tin into the packing box and flopped onto his bed.

"Draco, do something with those boxes. Your godfather is arriving in two days time and I'll not have him jumping over boxes of your things that you've shoved into the guest room rather than dealt with."

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, Mum," he said as his fork trailed through his scrambled eggs.

"When did you start liking scrambled eggs?" Narcissa asked with her back turned to Draco as she fussed over an omelet.

"Wolsford," Draco said between bites. "No chocolate chip pancakes there," he added with a wry grin.

"That explains it, I suppose." She turned around quickly, the spatula still in her hand. "Would you have preferred chocolate chip pancakes? I can still make them."

Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Those are for babies," he said before taking another delicate bite of eggs.

Narcissa sighed and turned back to her omelet. Fussing done, she joined Draco at the table and opened the paper. "Well, what would you like to do today?" she asked as she skimmed the society pages.

Draco had only been home a week. In that time, he'd gotten a new summer and fall wardrobe, they'd visited with Pansy and Michael Parkinson's parents and had gone on a weekend excursion to Bath. He really didn't want to do much of anything at all.

"Why can't we just stay here? I'll sort out the boxes and you can . . . you know . . . do what it is you do all day."

The paper snapped closed. "Watch it," Narcissa snapped, annoyance flashing in her eyes.

Draco's cheeks colored and he ducked his head. "Sorry, Mum," he mumbled, mortified that his mother could still cow him so.

The paper rustled and opened again. "That's better," Narcissa said. "Now, as I started to say, before little Lord Malfoy made his snivilish appearance known, sort out the boxes and then come with me on errands this afternoon. I need to get a few things before Severus arrives."

Draco rolled his eyes, grateful his mother couldn't see. More shopping. Bloody brilliant. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled as he stood and took his plate to the sink before trudging up the stairs.

Draco pushed back his sweaty hair. He'd finished going through the boxes, having thrown most of their contents away. The rest he'd packed into a much smaller box for storage. "Up to the attic with you," he murmured as he stood, box in hand. It was then that he realized he'd not done anything with the small, lidded tin sitting on the floor. He hadn't the heart to throw it out, but didn't want to box it up, either. He stared at it, shuffling his feet back and forth, before huffing and walking up to the attic.

He came back to his room several hours later. The tin, of course, was still there. Even so, Draco seemed a bit surprised—as if he'd expected it to disappear and relieve him of the responsibility of deciding what to do with it.

"This is ridiculous," he murmured aloud before snatching up the tin and sitting heavily on his bed. "What's the big deal, anyway?" he asked himself.

He opened the tin and fingered the contents, his touch resting on the small, gray stone. Draco had a sudden, burning desire to know what had become of Harry. He wondered again why Harry had never responded to his letters. He'd found other friends, Draco supposed.

Draco turned the stone over and over in his hand as he wondered about the strangest things, like whether Harry was still afraid of windows and whether he'd ever grown taller. He wondered if he still got sick, whether he still spent his time mucking about with plants, whether he'd kept up his Latin. He wondered whether Harry had a new best friend. He put the stone down for a moment, tracing its edges with one finger. For all the strange things he wondered, the one he most wanted to know was why Harry had never said goodbye. Clasping the stone in his hand, Draco sauntered down the stairs.

"Mum, do you know what ever happened to Harry?"

Narcissa stiffened. "Who, dear?"

Draco sighed. "Harry? Harry Potter? The chap that nearly lived with us for three years?"

Narcissa kept her eyes on the gardening section of the paper. "Yes, of course. Harry. No idea, Dragon. Why?"

"No reason. I was going through those boxes like you asked. Came across some old stuff. Got me thinking, you know?"

"Hmm," Narcissa said.

Silence passed for a few moments. Narcissa seemed uncomfortable for some reason that Draco couldn't work out. "Do you think he still lives on Magnolia Crescent?" Draco asked, hoping to start the conversation again.

Narcissa snapped the paper and shifted in her seat. "I told you, I don't know." she said, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice.

"I'd like to know. Drive me over? It's on the way to the shops."

Narcissa sighed. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why?" Draco demanded.

"Because," Narcissa said, rustling the paper once more.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco snapped.

Narcissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath before neatly refolding the paper and arranging it just so on the table. "It's horribly rude to show up uninvited," she countered.

"I'll take the chance," Draco said, his resolve to see Harry only increasing in the face of his mother's bizarre behavior.

"Perhaps you should call first?" Narcissa stalled.

Draco thought about that and nearly laughed. He'd never known Harry's phone number. "Let's just go over. If he's not there, I'll run your errands with you. I can always pop round on another day."

Realizing that Draco was not going to let this go, Narcissa relented. After all, she wouldn't mind a small measure of peace knowing that Harry had turned out all right. "I'll just get my keys, then," she said, still refusing to look at Draco.

The ride over was quiet. They pulled in front of Harry's house and Draco slipped out of the car. "If he's not there, I'll be right back. If I wave, go on to your errands. Ring my mobile on the way back."

Narcissa nodded, a strained smile plastered on her face.

Draco walked up to Harry's door and knocked. He waited for a few seconds. He thought he heard noise inside, so he knocked again. Just as he was about to knock a third time, the door flew open. He looked down at a scruffy head of wild black hair and grinned despite himself.

"What?" the black head barked before finally looking up.

Draco's grin slipped at the shuttered eyes and scowling face. There was a fading bruise high up on Harry's cheek. His bottom lip showed evidence of having been split recently. An odd feeling of protectiveness roiled through him. "What the bloody hell happened to you?" Draco blurted without thinking.

The shuttered eyes opened wide with fear and disbelief as they roved over the pale, aristocratic blond in front of them. Harry gasped once he realized just who was standing there. Why in the hell was Draco Malfoy standing on his small stoop? What the fuck did he think he was doing here—now of all times? Years of stifled anger and hurt wended across his skin, leaving a red, hot trail in their wake, making the bruise he knew Malfoy saw stand out even more. The fact that there might be a bit of shame intermingling with that anger and hurt—shame that Draco Malfoy had to see him like this—made Harry all the more angry. He didn't give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him. Why should he bloody well care what Draco Malfoy (who betrayed him, left him without word, and who couldn't even be arsed to write a single bloody letter in four years) thought of him?

Harry looked down and struggled to marshal his emotions. When he felt the façade he'd created so long ago finally slip into place, he looked up with a smug expression on his face. "So," his acid tongue dripped. "Draco Malfoy. The prodigal son has returned."

Draco stood there, his mouth hanging open, staring at his childhood friend wondering what in the hell had happened to him. His clothes were just as threadbare and overlarge as he remembered, but the cut, the bruise, the general state of . . . anger he could sense in Harry was unlike anything he'd remembered. Draco could see it in the spots of color blushing across Harry's pale cheek, the way his eyes glittered bottle-green in defiance, and in the way he held himself in a defensive line of lithe muscle. Harry's too-red lips pursed as he stared Draco down. Despite being clamped closed, they were still a bit bee-stung, Draco noticed. He wondered if they'd always been that full or if it had something to do with the cut. An unfamiliar feeling clanked through him that he dismissed as irritation and unease.

Uncomfortable with Draco's scrutiny, Harry snapped. "Christ, Draco. What? What the fuck are you doing here? What do you want?" he asked.

"What happened to you?" Draco repeated, as if still stuck in the moment the door had opened. Out of instinct, he reached out to touch Harry's face.

Harry reared back and hissed. "Don't touch me."

"Just tell me what happened," Draco demanded, immediately falling back into the protective role he'd willingly played all those years before.

Harry stared at him, hard. His lips twisted into a wry smile. "I fell," he said, remembering saying those same exact words to another aristocratic blonde. "Now, if you're done gawking, you can bloody well leave." Harry made to shut the door.

"Wait!" Draco said, finally coming to his senses. "I wanted to talk to you. See how you were. I've just come home. Last week, I mean."

Harry snorted. He looked Draco up and down. "And you wanted to see me? That's rich."

Draco didn't know where this surly, sarcastic . . . hooligan had come from. Where had Harry gone? Where had his scruffy little lion gone? He sent his mother away with an impatient hand wave while pleading with Harry. "Please. I—I just want to talk. Catch up a bit, yeah?"

Harry stared at him for a few seconds, glancing nervously out the door before sighing, rolling his eyes and opening the door just wide enough for Draco to slip in.

Draco followed Harry to the kitchen. Harry stood by the sink, his arms folded and his body hunched as if protecting himself. Draco wasn't sure whether to sit or stand and settled on leaning against the wall while trying to decide what to do with his feet, his hands, his arms. He couldn't recall a time he'd felt more uncomfortable. It was absolutely quiet.

"You're taller," Draco said, hoping to lighten the mood in the dour, little house. The sound of his voice seemed over-loud and pinched.

"I'm fourteen."

"Yeah." Draco trailed off. He fiddled with his jumper. Checked his watch before staring down at his shoes. "So, how have you been?"

"Just brilliant," Harry quipped.

Draco floundered for something to say. "Still at Bennington-Bright?"

Harry pulled his arms just a bit tighter. "No. Going to the private down the street. Closer and all."

Draco nodded. He glanced around the kitchen. Everything was neat and tidy. There were pictures on the fridge. None of Harry, he noticed. "Mum says hello," Draco said as he eyes continued to roam around the kitchen.

"Does she now?" Harry asked, an undercurrent of something rather snarlish in his voice.

Draco was taken aback. "She wondered how you were doing."

"Really? Tell her she can--" Harry stopped himself. He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. "Never mind. Never mind," he muttered.

Things were getting stranger by the second, Draco thought. He grasped at the last thing he had. "So, I was going through a box of old things. You'll never guess what I found."

Harry just stared at him dully, giving no indication that he was interested in what Draco had to say.

Draco cleared his throat, deciding not to continue with his tale of discovery. Harry seemed to have lost his appreciation for Draco's storytelling. Instead, he pulled out the small stone and put it on the kitchen counter. He watched as Harry stared at it, blinked, and looked at Draco as if say, "So what?"

Misunderstanding, Draco sought to explain. "It's the little stone--"

"I know what it is," Harry interrupted.

"Oh," Draco said, feeling as though he'd come into a conversation already in progress—one for which he hadn't been given the thread.

"Remember all of those treasure hunts we did? I can't believe how many holes we dug," he said, making a last-ditch effort at conversation.

Harry, though, was not in the mood for reminiscing. "Draco," he said with a sigh. "Why are you here? Really? What is it you want? I mean, it's been, what, four years? You never cared to talk to me during that time, why now?"

Draco's mouth fell open. "You're the one who couldn't be arsed to say goodbye. You never even replied to my letters," he snarled, his face flushing with indignation. He took a step forward. He wasn't sure why he'd gotten so angry, so fast.

Harry snorted again. "Goodbye? You're upset that I didn't say goodbye? You fucking betrayed me, you worthless snot! And what letters? I never got any letters from you."

Draco's hands curled into fists. "That's a lie," he growled, neatly sidestepping the lake issue as he took another step forward and leaned in.

Harry pushed off from the counter he'd been resting against. His hands dropped to his side as he charged across the kitchen. His own hands balled into fists as he got as close to Draco as he dared. "Don't you call me a liar, you poncey little arsehole," he snarled. "You're the liar! Why are you even here?" he snapped as he settled his weight around him, ready to fight back, if need be. "Didn't think the likes of me measured up to Malfoy standards," Harry yelled as he made a point of looking Draco up and down, his eyes resting on Draco's designer jumper.

"I just wanted to talk to you, you dirty little prick," Draco shouted as he looked down at Harry, a flash of white-hot anger gripping him. What was it about Harry that caused him to lose control of his emotions like that? No one had ever gotten to him the way Harry Potter did. He took a step back and uncurled his fists. The flashpoint of his anger petered out. He leaned against the wall again, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides.

Harry watched Draco carefully. When he saw him lean against the wall, he responded in kind, stepping back. He returned to his place by the counter, wrapping his arms around himself again.

Draco was panting as he stared at Harry. But, Harry wasn't looking at him; he was staring off into the distance.

"I suppose I am a bit dirty," Harry muttered with a dark chuckle as the anger bled from him. He turned and pinned Draco with his green-eyed gaze—saying so much, but nothing that Draco understood.

Draco had to look away. The intensity of the gaze was too much. He heard Harry sigh several moments later.

"Look, here's the thing, Draco, I'm fine, you're fine, let's skip the trip down memory lane and go back to our lives, okay? If you're—I mean, if you think I'm mad or anything, don't. What's done is done. You were eleven, confused and . . . whatever. You were eleven. I was eleven. You've gotten your closure."

"That's not why I'm here," Draco blurted, the unfamiliar churn of emotion rising within him.

"Really? Why else would you be?" Harry taunted.

Draco refused to be baited. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his emotion. Time to lay it all out, then. "I found the little stone. It made me think about you. I –I just wanted to know how you were, I guess. I mean, I know it's been a long time and all, but—the thing is, Harry, you were my best friend once. I meant what I said out on the dock that day."

Harry looked at him, really looked at him, and stepped forward. He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous gesture, Draco noted. He opened his mouth to say something. Just then, Draco's mobile rang, the shrill ring startling them both.

"It's my mum," Draco said as he checked his mobile. "She's waiting outside. Let me tell her I need a bit more time," he said as he flipped his little phone open, the shrill ring ending just as abruptly as it had started.

Harry snorted and shook his head. "No, no need really. You've seen me. I'm alive. Taller and all that. Time to go, then."

Draco gave up. "Uh, yeah. Okay," he said. He turned to leave when Harry tapped him on the shoulder, holding out the stone. Draco didn't know what possessed him, but he had a sudden overwhelming need to touch Harry. He grabbed his hand and closed it tight around the stone. Even when Harry hissed and tried to yank his hand away, Draco held fast. "You keep it," he said.

Harry finally pulled free, somehow leaving the stone in Draco's hands. "It's just a stone, Draco. A stupid, common little river stone I found one summer. There's nothing special about it. There never was."

Harry's words stung. What in the hell had happened in four years? Yeah, sure, things had gone all pear-shaped before he left. But that was all in the past. That couldn't account for Harry's surly attitude now, could it? Could it? Even as he was ushered out of the house, Harry's words continued to ring in his ears.

"See you," Harry said before shutting the door without ceremony, leaving Draco standing on the porch, alone. Draco looked down at the stone, still clutched in his hand, and wondered if Harry had been talking about the stone at all.

Harry took a shuddering breath once he was sure that Draco was gone. Of all the things Harry had expected to happen, finding Draco Malfoy—looking perfect and rich and . . . perfect—standing on his doorstep wasn't one of them. And, of course, he'd had to look like a street urchin—his clothes, his hair . . . his face. Harry didn't believe for one second that Draco had written any letters, or that he'd shown up, out of the blue, out of some desire to renew his friendship with Harry. Harry couldn't quite puzzle out why Draco had been there, bringing up long-dead memories, pulling forgotten treasures from his pockets.

Harry tried very hard to convince himself that he didn't care about Draco Malfoy at all as he scrubbed at his eyes with his fists and brushed against the bruise on his cheek. He winced. He touched it purposefully again, pressing in a bit, refusing to bite his lip at the pain. At least he'd given as good as he'd gotten this time. Vernon had come at him last week and Harry had given him a little taste of his own medicine; a swift kick to the groin had landed his uncle on the floor, whimpering like a little baby. He'd avoided Harry ever since. Harry smiled and wondered how long his reprieve would last.

Uncle Vernon had long stopped being careful. Especially now that Harry was older and attended an overcrowded private. The teachers at Bennington-Bright had gotten too suspicious for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's tastes—wondering why Harry hadn't been taken to specialists, why he wasn't taking special medication, wondering so many other things. Before Miss Poppy could demand a full physical, he'd been taken out of that school and put in the local secondary private. There, they didn't much care if Harry showed up with a bruise here and there or an occasional cut lip.

Vernon made a huge show the first day of school with Harry's new head teacher—going on and on about how Harry was the frequent target of a gang of roving bullies, how he refused to protect himself by following Uncle Vernon's rules, how he had a nasty little temper that got him into trouble, and how he needed strong supervision at school. Vernon had even mused that Harry was the "sharp-tongued little beast" he was because he'd been such a sickly little child. It was both a convenient and believable excuse. Long past the point of caring, Harry had been complicit in the deceit. After a stern warning to Harry, the appropriate notation was made in his file, never to be opened again. That had been two years ago.

Despite everything, Harry still received near perfect marks—not that anyone noticed or cared. He talked to no one, thus saving himself from telling elaborate lies. Not that anyone would care about that, either.

Harry brushed his fingers across his cheek again. He considered himself lucky. It wasn't often that Vernon progressed beyond the cuff about the ears, the backhand or the general manhandling. Of course, he wondered what course their little games would take now that Harry had shown he'd fight back. He smirked at the memory of Vernon flailing around on the floor like a beached walrus.

The clock in the living room chimed six o'clock. Harry smiled for real this time. The Dursleys were away for the weekend, which meant he could spend his free time any way he liked. He raced out the back door and headed towards the small, shady lea in the middle of a circle of large trees at the back of the garden. Petunia never came out this far and the Dursleys' had been away so often that spring and summer that Harry had had time to build his little Eden without interference.

He'd recently become fascinated with night-blooming plants. Mr. Wells, the owner of the local nursery and his summer and weekend employer, had allowed him to order some things that he'd cultivated and tended over the last ten weeks. Only this week had the shy night-blooms begun to unfurl. The book Mr. Snape had given him so many years ago (still his most prized possession) had given him the idea for the planting design.

He entered his little Eden. The tension of the day melted away as it had so many times before. This is what kept him sane—tending to his plants. Here, in this little enclave, there were no Dursleys to contend with and no surprise visits from Draco Malfoy to puzzle over. He looked up at the sky, smiling at the way it was streaked with purples, reds, and blues. Dusk was rising, the gloaming brilliant.

"Hello my lovelies," he whispered, as he surveyed his handiwork. His fingers ghosted across the small, white, waxy flowers of the night-blooming jasmine twining over the small arbor he'd fashioned from bits and bobs of wood scraps he'd found in the garage. "_Cestrum nocturnum_," he murmured as he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. The jasmine's scent hung heavy, almost cloyingly, in the slight breeze swirling around him.

He turned to the fat, sprawling blossoms of his four o'clocks. He shifted his weight back and forth with giddy anticipation as the bulbous blossoms swelled and, with a soft puff, popped open and settled themselves into a brilliant display of color and motion. "_Mirabilis jalapa_," he said in a melodious whisper as his fingers traced the deckled edges of several of the blossoms.

With a sigh, he turned to his favorites. The massive moonflower blooms bobbed and swayed, winking at him with good humor. He leaned in and inhaled their soft, spicy fragrance before plucking one and lying down on the soft grass. He stared at it, twirling it this way and that, before working on the botanical name. This one was still a bit difficult for him, but he was determined to get it just right. "_Ip—Ipomo—I-pom-o-e-a alba_," he said finally, repeating it until it tripped from his tongue with ease.

He lay there until well past the gloaming, until well past the time when night pulled back her coats and shared the dazzling night sky with him. He held up the moon flower blossom still clutched in his hand and compared it to the moon sitting fat among the stars, forgetting for a while about his life, the sudden reappearance of Draco Malfoy, and stupid little river stones.


	11. Reaping What Was Sown

**A/N: **This chapter has not been beta'ed. Please forgive any mistakes—they were unintentional.

**Disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and to all those whom she has licensed that world. I'm not on that list. I make no money from this, nor do I wish to.

Chapter 11:REAPING WHAT WAS SOWN 

"Why are we doing this again?" Draco asked as he ducked his head low, not wanting to be seen riding in the rickety old pallet lorry.

"Your mother wishes to replant the garden. I am staying with you for several weeks while my chambers at school are refurbished. I intend to see that this replanting is done properly and need assistance. You haven't left the house in days and have been moping about the entire time, or so I'm led to believe. Oh, yes, and I so enjoy making your dour mood swings even more worrisome. That about cover it?" Severus drawled as he drove to the local nursery.

Draco crossed his arms and muttered something obscene under his breath while he looked out the window. His godfather had been with them for all of two days and had already rankled Draco with pestering questions about his surly mood.

"Want to talk about it?" Severus asked.

"Not likely," Draco scoffed.

"Too bad. You're giving your mother fits with this attitude of yours and I'll not have Narcissa whinging at me day in and out about what's wrong with you."

Draco huffed and clucked his tongue. What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to tell his godfather that he couldn't stop thinking about Harry? That would go over well.

"Is it a girl?" Severus asked.

Draco snorted at how discomfited his godfather sounded asking such a question. "No, it's not a girl," Draco murmured.

"Ah. . . . well . . . a boy then?" Severus said with hesitation.

Draco laughed. "No. At least not like that," he hastened to add.

They drove in silence for a bit longer. Draco was struck by the incongruity of his elegant godfather driving such a low-class lorry. "Why do we have to pick up the plants? Mum always has them delivered." Draco wrinkled his nose and shifted in his seat. "It smells in here," he murmured under his breath.

Ignoring Draco's complaints, Severus said, "And that is precisely why we are picking everything out and delivering it ourselves. Those nursery lads are always bruising the plants."

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. At least he'd be able to forget about Harry for a little while.

"Narcissa mentioned that you visited an old friend the other day."

Or not. Draco felt the needle-sharp prick of pain at the reminder of his disastrous visit with Harry. He hid it behind a mask of indifference and shrugged. "Yeah. Went through some old stuff. Thought it might be nice to say hello."

"She seemed to think it didn't go well."

Fuck, Draco thought to himself, he goes straight for the target, that one. Draco shrugged again. "He was different."

"I would imagine so—nearly four years have passed."

Draco nodded in response, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything more. Yes, Harry was different and yes, part of it was because he was older. But there was more to it. Draco was sure.

"Ah, here we are," Severus said as he pulled the lorry into the nursery's car park.

"Bloody brilliant," Draco muttered under his breath as he climbed out of the lorry and dawdled after Severus.

"The proprietor, please," Severus snapped at a hapless young man who appeared to be all of twenty.

The young man—John, his employee tag read—looked Severus up and down, turned his gaze to Draco and shook his head. "Mr. Wells!" John bellowed over his shoulder before returning to weeding a permanent garden demonstration area in the front of the nursery.

Seconds later a small, crotchety man approached them. "I've told you not to disturb me! What is it? What can't you do without assistance now?" he asked in efficient clipped tones.

Unfazed by his employer's brisk manner, John gestured towards Severus and Draco. "They asked for you," he said before returning to his work.

A noise of frustration escaped Mr. Wells' throat. "What? What do you want?" he snapped at Severus and Draco.

Draco nearly laughed. This was Uncle Severus in thirty years. Shooting a glance at his godfather, it was obvious that he'd missed the striking similarity.

"I require your assistance, sir," Severus began. "I have quite a large order to fill and find it easier to work with the proprietor. However, if you'd rather, I can certainly take my business elsewhere."

Mr. Wells didn't blink an eye at the threat. He flapped his hands in the air and said, "Fine, fine. What are you looking for? I suppose you'll want to inspect everything?"

"Yes, of course," Severus said as he withdrew his small journal from his pocket and began thumbing through it. "Ah, yes. I'd like to start with the foundation shrubbery, then move onto small specimen trees before moving to borders and annuals.

Mr. Wells sighed irritably and flapped his hands again. "Get on with it then," he croaked.

Severus's lips pursed a thin, prim line, which Draco found very, very funny.

"Let us begin with your finest buxus microphylla, ligustrum sinense, leea coccinea--"

"Stop, STOP," Mr. Wells bellowed. He looked Severus up and down before spitting on the ground absently. "You're one of those uppity blokes, aren't ya? Fine. Fine. I've got no use for all of those fancy names. Either call 'em by their commons or you'll have to work with the kid—he's the only one 'round here who follows that stuff."

Severus huffed. "The kid, then," he said through clenched teeth.

Mr. Wells harrumphed. "Just as well—I've not the patience for the likes of you." He turned to John who was pretending not to eavesdrop while weeding the ornamental bed. "John, get the kid," Wells said before turning back to Severus. "He'll be along in a jiff. He'll know your fancy names," he said before ambling off without so much as a goodbye.

Severus scoffed at the shoddy treatment. "How does your mother stand this place?" Severus whispered.

Draco shrugged, trying to keep his sniggering under control. He always thought it pompous that his godfather insisted on using the botanical names—the full botanical names—when outside of his classroom. He turned and walked towards a small vine with orange flowers and watched it sway in the breeze.

"Can I help you?" a soft tenor voice called.

Draco turned, startled that he knew the voice. It was Harry. He stood there, in a dirty tee-shirt and baggy jeans, his face flushed from exertion, his hands covered in worn gardener's gloves. There was a swipe of dirt high across his cheekbone where Draco had seen the bruise just days before. "Harry," Draco blurted.

Harry's genial smile faltered as his gaze shot to Draco and then to the man standing in front of him. It was Mr. Snape. How could he have forgotten? Harry hesitated for a second. He thought about turning tail and leaving them in the hapless care of John. 'No,' he thought to himself. 'This is my territory, not theirs.' he said to himself before withdrawing one hand from its glove and offering it to Severus. "Mr. Snape. It's been a long time," he murmured. His raised his eyes to Draco for a brief moment. "Draco," he said with a head nod.

"Mr. Potter," Severus said, taking Harry's hand in his. "I take it you are the 'kid' your employer referred to," he said with a sneer.

Harry chuckled. Something about Mr. Snape always put him at ease. As quickly as Draco could cause his anger to roil through him, Mr. Snape could calm him. "Yeah, I suppose I am. What can I help you with?" he asked, not wanting to make small talk.

Severus's brow arched in challenge. "As I asked that abominable little man, I'd like to see your finest buxus microphylla, ligustrum sinense, leea coccinea, and llex opaca to start with."

Harry hesitated. Never taking his eyes from Severus's he called for John. When John trotted over, Harry flashed a quick grin in Severus's direction. "I need a littleleaf boxwood, a Chinese privet, a small west Indian holly and . . . uh, an American holly. Get them from the back," he said.

John nodded and trotted to the back.

"I'm impressed, Mr. Potter," Severus said. "But, then again, those are awfully common, now aren't they? In fact, the ligustrum sinense is nearly a household name in and of itself."

"If you say so, sir," Harry said with a small chuckle and a hint of sparkle in his eyes.

Draco was seething while he watched this exchange. Why didn't Harry smile at him that way? Why could Harry talk so easily with his godfather, but not him?

John returned with the requested plants and Severus made quite a show of looking over them carefully, asking about watering and fertilizing conditions. Harry answered all of his questions, his gaze drifting towards Draco every so often.

"I'll take ten of these, fifteen—no twenty of these, and twelve of these," Severus said, pointing to the boxwood, west Indian holly, and Chinese privet, respectively.

John nodded. "We have free delivery sir," he said.

"No," Severus sneered. I've brought my own lorry. We'll load them ourselves, I think. With Mr. Potter's able assistance, of course."

Harry nodded and looked down. "Anything else, sir? Shall I send John to gather everything?"

"No. I think I should like to see a prunus Americana, prunus serrulata and an acer palmatum."

"John," Harry called, "see if we have any more American plums, will you? I know the Japanese cherries came in last week—the flowering ones, mind you." Harry hesitated and turned back to Severus. "As for the acer, er, Japanese maple," Harry said for John's benefit, "you didn't specify which kind. We have a rather brilliant Atropurpureum—that's the red one, John—if you're interested. Sir."

Severus's brow arched. "That would be acceptable."

Harry grinned. "Anything else, sir? What? No pink thistle?"

"No," Severus said with a grin. "Not today, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded to John, who left to find the specimen trees Severus wanted to see.

"I see you took my instruction to heart," Severus said.

Harry nodded. His gaze darted to Draco. "It was all those primers. They, uh, they really helped. I still have my Parkinson," he added.

Severus nodded. He looked over at his godson who pretended to be fascinated by a flowering vine. He'd long ago figured out that Harry was the friend Draco had gone to see. Though, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why things had gone so disastrously. At least, Draco seemed to think they had.

"How are your classes? Still at Bennington-Bright?" Severus asked in an effort to find out what had happened. He was surprised to see Harry's expression shutter closed at the question.

"No sir," Harry murmured. "My cousin—he boards now—and it was, I mean, the local private secondary was closer. I can walk there," Harry stammered. Good lord, as quickly as the man could calm him, he could turn him into a flustered mess.

"I see," Severus said slowly. "You aren't looking any worse for the wear, I suppose," he said as he scrutinized Harry's scrawny frame and wild hair. Severus tsked at the dirt on Harry's face. "Really, though, Mr. Potter, one would think you'd clean up your face now and then. I know you work at a nursery, but you simply must have standards," he said as he reached out with a handkerchief to wipe Harry's face.

Harry ducked away from the hand. "No, it's okay. Really," he said, but he wasn't fast enough. He winced as the cloth dragged across his skin. He knew the second the handkerchief stopped that Mr. Snape had seen the remnants of the bruise. A large hand curled around his chin and forced his head up and to the side.

"What happened here," Severus murmured as he twisted Harry's head this way and that to better examine the bruise.

Harry stiffened for a moment before relaxing into his "chagrined" persona. He chuckled. "Nothing, really. Except that I'm clumsy. Stepped on a gardening hoe while working out back. It snapped up and caught me right across the cheek."

Draco, who had been pretending not to listen, turned sharply at that. "You told me you fell," he said.

Severus, who still had his hand on Harry's chin, turned to Draco. "What did you say?"

"He told me he fell. I saw that bruise the other day. His lip was split as well. He said he fell," Draco repeated as he walked closer.

Harry shook himself loose and swallowed. He cursed himself for not being careful. He didn't think Draco was paying attention and, honestly, he'd forgotten what he'd told him the other day. That whole visit was a blur of fire and spit. "Well yeah, I fell after that stupid hoe nearly knocked me funny," he lied smoothly. He added a self-deprecating laugh for good measure. "I'm always doing stuff like that. It's a wonder I've not lost a limb or something."

Draco started to say he didn't believe Harry, but a cutting glance from Severus quieted him.

"Of course," Severus said smoothly. "Hazards of the job, I suppose. Tell me, Harry, how are you aunt and uncle these days?"

Harry was startled by the sudden topic change and his face and body language showed it. "Why—why would you ask about them, sir?" he blurted, wondering if he'd given anything away.

Severus shrugged. "Just making conversation."

Harry licked his lips and ran his hands through his hair. "They're fine. All fine. We're all fine." Harry twisted around to see what was taking John so long. "I'm going to check on John. Sorry for the wait."

"No matter. We can look at trees tomorrow. I think I'll just settle up for the shrubbery today, if you don't mind. Will you be here tomorrow, Harry? Can we count on your assistance again?"

"Um . . . yeah. Sure," he said. "I'll, uh, I'll be back."

When Harry was gone Draco marched up to Severus. "He told me he fell!" he hissed.

Severus held up a hand, telling Draco to stop. "This is not the time or place, but I think you and I need to have a little chat about a few things."

Draco nodded slowly, wondering what was going on.

A few minutes later, a nervous Harry and an oblivious John came round with the carts of shrubs Severus was buying. Severus made a huge show of inspecting all of them, asking Harry questions the whole time. To Draco, it seemed like Harry was getting more and more flustered the longer the conversation went on.

"These will do," Severus announced at the end. "Help us load them, Harry?"

Harry shot a look at the ground and bit his lip. Draco was suddenly struck by how much Harry looked like his seven-year-old counterpart in that moment.

"Um," Harry began, "I've got some things to do. John is really much better at this sort of thing."

"Nonsense," Severus said. "John can take care of your 'things,' can't you John?"

"Uh, yeah," John said, making a quick retreat.

Harry's eyes shot daggers at John's retreating back before sighing and returning his attention to Severus and Harry. "Let's get started, then," he murmured.

It took the better part of thirty minutes before they were close to being done. By then Harry, Draco, and Severus were hot and sweaty.

"Well, sir, that's the last," Harry said as he heaved the final boxwood onto the back of the lorry. He scratched his arm without thinking, making his sleeve rise, revealing a ring of dark purple bruises.

Draco couldn't help it. He gasped.

Harry's head snapped around at the sound. He followed Draco's line of sight. His face drained of color. The three stood there for several moments, no one saying anything.

"It's not what you think," Harry blurted.

"Tell us, then. Exactly what is it?" Severus said as he pulled Harry's sleeve further up and examined the ring of bruises. He had a good idea what had caused those bruises. The truth of it made his stomach turn. He continued on, determined to get to the bottom of things. "Because to me it looks as though a rather large hand, say an adult's hand, wrapped around your arm and squeezed for all it was worth. Of course, I've been known to be wrong. Perhaps this ring of bruises, suspiciously shaped like fingers mind you, is the result of a bizarre nursery accident as well?"

"It's funny that you should mention that. You see--" Harry began before he was cut off.

"Do not lie to me," Severus hissed as he leaned forward wondering how far he could push Harry. How dare the boy try and tell such ridiculous stories. Severus ignored the little voice that asked why he cared. What was it about this boy that rankled him so? What was it about this boy that clawed caring and empathy from him, both rather foreign emotions to Snape except where Draco and Cissa were concerned?

"I don't owe you any explanations," Harry snarled. His saw Draco standing off to the side. "Either of you," he said before returning his gaze to Mr. Snape.

Severus raised his eyebrow in examination. "My, my, my, Mr. Potter. Not so polite when the questions hit a little too close to home, are we?"

Harry fumed. "You've got your plants. Have a nice day," he said tersely as he turned to leave.

"Perhaps I should just ask your aunt and uncle?" Severus querried. Harry looked as though he'd been hit with some sort of petrifying spell at those words. Severus had his answer.

Harry sighed and turned back to face Mr. Snape. He wasn't going to let this go. Harry couldn't risk a surprise visit from Mr. Snape to his aunt and uncle. "I get in a lot of fights. Hot temper and all that," he said. "Draco saw that the other day, I think," Harry said, shooting a glance at Draco.

"Are you asking me to believe you're some kind of bully, Mr. Potter?" Severus asked.

Harry shook his head and laughed, though it was a hollow, poisonous sound. "I said I get into fights—I didn't say I started them." It was as close to the truth as Harry was willing to go.

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Harry," he said, intending to say more, but Draco cut him off.

"We don't believe you," he spat. "Something's happening to you. What is it? What the bloody hell is going on?" Draco asked, as if he were still Harry's best friend; he asked as if he'd not been absent from Harry's life for four years.

Harry refused to look at either of them. "I told you what's happening. Sorry if you don't believe me. Look, I've really got to go. Leave your list of names with John tomorrow—I'll translate," he said before walking away from them, not looking back.

"Uncle Severus!" Draco said. "You don't believe that tripe, do you? Someone is hurting him. Maybe a bully at school, or something. We need to tell his family."

Severus looked at his godson and sighed. Sometimes, for as smart as he was, Draco could be incredibly dim. "Draco, why don't you tell me all about your visit with Mr. Potter the other day."

"You'll never guess who Draco and I saw at the nursery this afternoon, Cissa," Severus said as he gestured for Draco to pass him the bowl of new peas.

"Who?" Narcissa asked as she cut a small bite from her veal chop.

"Harry," Draco interjected as he passed the peas and helped himself to the potato dish. "Is there blue cheese in this?" he asked, his nose wrinkling.

"Yes, and who did you see Severus?" Narcissas answered in response to both questions.

Severus's hand stilled as he looked at Narcissa, his eyes glittering. "You heard me," he said in a near whisper.

"He still has that bruise I told you about, Mum, and there were more around his arm. Like someone had yanked him hard or something," Draco said as he took a measured spoonful of potatoes.

Narcissa's knife clattered to the plate. She muttered an apology before taking it up again. "Is that so," she said. "Poor boy. Always getting in accidents," she said, staring directly at Severus.

Severus returned Narcissa's gaze with his own measured stare. "Perhaps. Nevertheless, Draco and I have our suspicions that something else is afoot. You know all about suspicions don't you Narcissa?" he asked, one eyebrow quirked.

"Yeah. I think he's being bullied by someone at school or in the neighborhood," Draco said darkly. "I tried to convince Uncle Severus that we needed to tell his family straight away, but he said no. What do you think, Mum?"

Narcissa laid her silverware down and gulped her wine. "I think your godfather is right, Draco," she said at long last.

Draco deflated a bit. "Fine," he said under his breath.

Severus cut his gaze over to Draco. "Nevertheless, Draco, why don't you tell your mother what you told me this afternoon? I'm sure she'd be interested in your observations about Mr. Potter."

Annoyance flashed in Narcissa's eyes. "I don't think that will be necessary," she whispered.

Draco, looked up at the cold turn his mother's voice had taken. She'd been very odd about Harry. Draco wondered why.

"Go on, Draco," Severus prodded.

Draco cleared his throat. His gaze darted between his mother's face and his godfather's. They were staring at each other, having some sort of battle of wills, Draco reckoned. Why, he couldn't begin to fathom.

"Yeah, well," Draco began uncertainly. "He lied about how he got hurt, you see. He told me that he'd fallen. But today at the nursery, he told Uncle Severus that he'd had some sort of gardening accident. He covered really well, like . . . like he used to lying or something. But, I don't ever remember him lying when were kids, you know? I mean, what's happened in four years that he could do that now? I dunno. It was weird. Everything just seemed strange." Draco paused and cocked his head to the side, considering something he'd not thought about before. He leaned forward. Caught up in the Harry Potter enigma, his words tumbling out at a fever pitch. It was like a grand mystery—the kinds he and Harry used to solve as children. "And then, when I was at his house the other day, there were pictures on the fridge and in the hallway—family pictures and such. Some away, some clearly taken at the house, but the funny thing was, Harry wasn't in any of them. Not one. But the biggest thing was how he acted. At the house, he was edgy and angry—I mean really angry, like he was ready for a fight or something. But, at the nursery, he was calm, almost relaxed. Well, until Uncle Severus practically interrogated him. It seems odd that he was more at ease in open spaces than in his own home, don't you think? Mum? What do you think?"

Narcissa tore her eyes from Severus's accusing gaze. "I think you're making too much of this. Both of you, she said before striding from the table and up the stairs. At the sound of her bedroom door closing, Severus turned to Draco. He considered Draco carefully. Draco had hit on the crux of what was so troubling about Harry without even realizing it. Severus found himself revising his earlier assessment of Draco's capacity for dimness. It wasn't that Draco could be dim, it was more that Draco had grown up in a blissful bubble. It hadn't occurred to him that some families didn't support each other, that some families actively hurt each other.

Severus's thoughts turned to a different boy. One who, in his younger years, was shy and polite and scared of his own shadow, but now appeared angry, apprehensive and, by Draco's account, headed in the wrong direction.

"Draco," Severus began hesitantly, "do you ever remember seeing anyone . . . hurt Mr. Potter when he was younger?"

Draco sat back in his chair and blinked. This evening was getting stranger by the second. He sifted through three years of memories before answering. "No," he said slowly. "But . . . well, I mean I never got the impression that he was particularly close with his aunt and uncle. They weren't very nice. I just assumed that they were like that with everyone, you know? His aunt was the worst, really. Always snapping at Harry, calling him boy, dragging him around by the arm--" Draco stopped suddenly and drew in a deep breath. He remembered the small ring of bruises on Harry's upper arm. He looked up. "Uncle Severus?" he asked in a soft voice. "Do you think . . . why? That doesn't make any sense. They're family!"

Severus shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured. "But, I think further investigation is in order."

Draco nodded, subdued. He took a bite of potatoes, but immediately put his fork down. "Do you think Mum suspected--" he started to ask.

"Let's not jump to any conclusions just yet," Severus interjected, ignoring the fact that he was just as guilty as Narcissa in shielding Draco from unpleasant things, shielding himself from unpleasant things.

Draco nodded again, stared at his plate and wondered for the hundredth time that week just what in the hell had happened to Harry Potter.

13


	12. The Living Presence of Trees

**A/N: **Thanks so much to Sansa for both a speedy and thorough beta of this.

**Disclaimer:** The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and to all those whom she has licensed that world. I'm not on that list. I make no money from this, nor do I wish to.

Chapter 12: The Living Presence of Trees 

"Are you going back to the nursery today?" Draco asked his godfather while watching him dress down a young man named Steve whom Severus was paying to replant Narcissa's garden.

"No, not there you idiot, the _buxus microphylla_ goes there, not the _ligustrum sinense_!" Severus hissed, stopping Steve from committing the grievous error of planting a Chinese privet where the littleleaf boxwood was meant to go. "What did you say, Draco?" Severus asked as he struggled not leap forward and shake some sense into the irritating and befuddled Steve.

Draco opened his mouth to repeat his question.

"No, no, no! I said the _buxus microphylla_ goes there," Severus barked.

"Er . . . what?" Steve asked.

Severus shook his head, mumbled something derogatory about Steve's parentage, and squeezed his eyes shut. "The boxwood, you idiot, the boxwood!" Severus spat in a strained voice as if merely mentioning the plant by its common name might strike him dead.

Draco rolled his eyes and fought the urge to laugh.

"Right," Steve began confidently. "Er, what?" he said again, as his gaze shifted between the two plants in front of him, his earlier confidence bleeding away at a rapid pace.

Severus darted forward and stood close enough that he could loom over Steve. "The one with the small leaves. Oh for the love of God, that one!" Severus finally said, pointing his finger at the small boxwood. "I have never borne witness to such egregious incompetence. No, don't you dare touch that. You're bruising it. Stop. Stop! Leave at once! I'll not have you mucking up my garden."

Steve scrambled to his feet. "Crazy wanker. Good luck finding anyone to work with the likes of you," he muttered under his breath before removing his borrowed gardening gloves and leaving without further comment.

Severus watched him go and sighed. At this rate, the garden would never be replanted. He turned to see Draco sniggering. Severus's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Draco," he said as he waggled the gardening gloves in Draco's direction. The threat of forced labor sobered Draco immediately. "Now I believe you were saying something?"

"I thought you said you were going back to the nursery today."

"I did. I am. Now that I don't have to worry about hopeless young men named Steve tromping through the garden and planting things willy-nilly without regard to my planning. Honestly, he called himself a yard man but couldn't tell the difference between the_ buxus microphylla_ and the _ligustrum sinense_?" Severus sniffed. "That's false advertising."

Draco sighed. "Forget about the ruddy plants! When are we going to see Harry again?"

"Watch your tone, Mr. Malfoy. That is inappropriate behavior for a young man of fifteen. I'll not have it."

"Sorry, Uncle Severus," Draco said, running a hand through his hair.

Severus perched on the low stone wall and bade Draco to join him. "_We_ are not going to visit the nursery today. I am." Before Draco could protest, Severus said, "Do not argue with me."

Draco shot him a sideways glance. "But you're going to find out, aren't you?"

"I am going to try," Severus said with a weary tone, wondering to himself for the millionth time why he was choosing to get involved and why he was choosing to get involved now.

"Why does this concern you so?" Severus asked, hoping that in Draco's answers he might find his own.

Draco looked down at his hands. He shrugged his shoulders as he struggled to find the right words. "He was my best friend. I don't understand. Why wouldn't he tell me? I told him all of my secrets. Why didn't he tell me his? Why would anyone let that keep happening and not tell someone? Why didn't someone do something?"

Severus looked away. They were good questions, but too many of them had no answers. "Let your mother know I've gone to the nursery. I'll be back this afternoon," he said as he stood and smoothed his trousers.

"Oh, you again," Wells said as Severus strode forward. "Suppose you'll be wanting the kid again, aye?"

"Quite," Severus said, annoyed by the little man already. "I'm here to see--"

"—I know what you're here for. The kid set up all your fancy trees over there," Wells said as he pointed a crooked finger towards the side of the nursery.

"Is Mr. Potter here?" Severus asked in irritation as he looked around, suspecting that Harry had made sure he wouldn't have to be here.

Wells looked Severus over. Severus had the distinct impression that Wells' beady eyes were searching for something that one couldn't see in the regular course of things. After an uncomfortably long period of time had passed, Wells asked, "What do you want with him? He's a good lad, he is. A bit on the feisty side, but that never hurt no one." The tone was soft and beseeching. Severus realized that for all of the man's gruffness, Wells cared about Harry.

Severus met Wells' hard stare with as much openness as he could muster. "I assure you, sir, I mean him no harm. In fact, my godson and I are quite worried about him. We've not seen him for several years and . . . he seems a bit worse for the wear. He is not anxious to talk with us and I thought this might be the best opportunity I had to find out what has happened."

Wells kept on staring, his immutable gaze commanding Severus to go on, to confess his purpose and his sins. Severus fought the urge to look away. "I am concerned about the bruising on his arm and face that I saw yesterday."

Wells' gaze flickered for a moment. "Bullies, bad neighborhood," he spat, daring Severus to refute him.

Severus smirked and stepped forward. "I know where Mr. Potter lives. I'd wager those bruises didn't come from any bully. I'd wager, too, that you agree with me."

Wells looked away. He shook his head. "That boy attracts trouble."

"That may be the case, but I'd venture that he lives with far more than he attracts," Severus said in a low whisper. Wells' head shot up at that. Severus held his breath, afraid he'd overplayed his hand.

Wells hobbled forward, "Just what are you saying, Mr. Snape?"

So the old man was going to make him say it, Severus thought to himself. Fine. He was in no mood for silly intrigues and follies. "I believe the Dursleys are not particularly careful with Mr. Potter's physical well being."

Wells stepped back and waved his hands out in front of him. "I didn't say nothing about . . . about that!" he whispered in a furious rasp. "I'm not accusing nobody of anything like . . . like that! I'll not be a party to it neither. Are you a detective? Oh Christ, you're a detective."

Severus rushed forward. "I am not a detective, I assure you. I am just concerned. I only want to know what you know. That's all. I'm not asking you to accuse anyone of anything."

Wells ran a shaky hand through his thinning hair. "I'm not making no accusations," he mumbled. "I stay out of other people's business. I'm no party to any of that."

"I understand," Severus murmured. Truly, he did understand. In the space of a few moments, Mr. Wells had articulated the heart of the matter. It was too bloody scary to get involved in something so serious when all you had were assumptions and vague bits of subjective evidence. Even when the evidence was blatant, family issues were . . . delicate.

Wells sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. "Harry's been working for me about two years now. Scrawny little pup, but a hard worker, quiet, respectful . . . most of the time, anyway. He gets real angry some days—edgy like. Usually when people ask about how he hurt himself. He's got a million excuses, of course. I used to think he was just odd—the way he studied about plants, asked a million questions, mumbled those pompous botanical names over and over until he got them right." Wells hesitated and shifted his weight before continuing. Severus stood stock still. "Never talks about his family. Never talks about what he does for fun. Don't think he has any friends. Oh, he's polite and friendly enough, but he makes it real clear that you can't get close to him. Then--" Wells paused again. "One day, about a year ago I think, he stayed late to help me, missed the evening bus. I called his home to explain and spoke with his uncle, told him what a good worker Harry was, asked him to pick him up—didn't want a boy of thirteen getting home on his own. When I told Harry, I swear to Christ that for a second he looked horrified. I . . . I didn't understand it at first. It didn't even strike me as odd when he shooed me home, assuring me that his uncle would be along any moment, and that I didn't need to stay. So I left. Course, I forgot something and came back a few minutes later. Got there just in time to see Harry and his uncle having a row. Don't know what it was about, but the uncle gave him a good cuff about the ears and grabbed him by the arm, yanking it hard and dragging him to the car. Next day, someone saw bruises on his arm and Harry said he had almost fallen off a balcony the night before and that his uncle had grabbed him just in time. He didn't know that I'd seen. I started wondering after that about . . . well, you know," Wells mumbled. He paced back and forth a bit. "That's all I know. He could have deserved it for all I know. Maybe he clobbered his uncle right hard earlier. I don't know. I'm not saying another word," he said, his crusty demeanor back.

"Thank you, Mr. Wells," Severus murmured.

Wells nodded. "Your trees are over there. I'll send the boy along momentarily."

Severus paused for a moment before turning towards the trees. A few minutes later, he heard the rustle of leaves behind him.

"Mr. Snape."

Severus didn't have to turn to recognize the voice, or the wariness, the hesitance, in it. "Mr. Potter," he said as he turned around. "You're quite right. These _Atropurpureums_ are quite lovely. Tell me about this one here," Severus said as he gestured towards the small sapling closest to him. "The roots seem a bit spindly."

Harry felt a bit off-balance. He'd expected Mr. Snape to bark questions at him about the "bully" situation or check the bruising on his arm. After all, that's what most people did. They took an impassioned interest in him when they thought him hurt. A part of Harry was always dismayed by how easily he deflected their concern. They only seemed concerned long enough to figure out that he was alive, breathing, and could take a few knocks without falling apart. After all, he wasn't their problem. So he'd come prepared for Mr. Snape. Mr. Snape was disinterested. Harry felt an unfamiliar sting of hurt at that. His lack of faith in the world reaffirmed, he shrugged it off and launched into dissection of the tree's form, growth, and proportion.

"These are quite nice specimens. Well-formed, symmetrical, good color. Mr. Wells runs a good nursery, it seems."

Harry nodded in distraction as he fiddled with one of the small trees. He frowned. It looked as though it was on the verge of a bit of leaf-tip burn. Damn John and his over watering.

"You've been working for him two years, he says? Started earning your keep at an early age, it seems."

Harry looked up in surprise, his distraction broken. "What did you say?"

"Only that Mr. Wells mentioned that you've been working for him for two years. Long time."

"That's not what you said, and why are you talking to Mr. Wells about me at all?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing into small slits.

"Conversation, Mr. Potter. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

"I've heard of it," Harry said as he mumbled "_I've also heard of interrogation_," under his breath. "Have you decided on any of these?" Harry asked as he gestured toward the ring of small saplings and tried, once again, to get the "conversation" back to matters at hand.

"I'm still deciding. Mr. Wells thinks very highly of you, you know."

Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Talking with Mr. Snape was like being trapped on a deranged tilt-o-whirl. "He does?"

"Yes. He worries about you, I think," Severus said conversationally. "Do your aunt and uncle worry about you, Mr. Potter? Do they worry about you working so far away? I wonder, Mr. Potter, how is it that you get home at night? What happens if say . . . you have to work late? What do you do then?"

Harry's hand tightened around the slender trunk of the tree they were examining.

"Careful now, Mr. Potter. It wouldn't do to snap such a lovely young sapling. You've bruised it as it is. They will only bend so far before they break. Rather like people."

Harry gasped and loosened his hand. "Is that what you're trying to do, sir? Bend me until I break?" he asked as he released the trunk and stepped back.

Severus looked him over carefully. He didn't respond to Harry's question, at least not directly. He turned back to the saplings. "This one I think—this one seems the best of the bunch," he murmured, as his graceful fingers traced the small, spiky leaves still young and tender but unmatched in brilliance of color and promise.

Harry hesitated. "Er, perhaps you didn't see the far side of it, Mr. Snape, but that one . . . that one's taken a bit of a hard knock." Harry made the point of turning the tree so that Severus could see the broken branch and the few leaves edged with a yellow. "I mean, it will come back. All ornamental _acers_ do—they have a second set of leaves in reserve—but, it's not as in good of shape as the others."

"I'm well aware of its imperfections, Mr. Potter," he murmured, staring at Harry rather than the sapling.

That was when Severus realized it—why he was doing what he was doing. He'd always had a soft spot for bruised things, plants especially. There were very few plants that couldn't be nursed back to health, even under the most dire of circumstances. That small shot of green after weeks, sometimes months, of gray desolation always sent a thrill through him. That was only the beginning, of course. Coaxing that small shot of green to burgeon into maturity with only patience, care and discipline as his guides was an adventure every time. Each one different, just as each plant was different. He'd learned long ago that he couldn't force the plant to do what he wanted, he could only guide it and allow himself the grace to stand awash in the wild beauty of what it would become. He was hoping that, in this regard, people could be more like the flora and fauna he labored over.

Uncomfortable with the weight of Mr. Snape's appraising stare, Harry's face was suffused with color nearly as brilliant as the forlorn sapling he held at arm's length. "Then why would you want it?"

"Because, Mr. Potter, and as you so aptly pointed out, it has not withered completely. It simply needs care and attention and once it receives a steady dose of both, I have no doubt that its brilliance will outshine all to which it is compared."

Harry was immeasurably perplexed. He didn't like feeling out of depth, or as if others were talking about him while talking around him. Harry gave a short, choppy nod. "It's your choice, I suppose, though I can't imagine why you'd spend your time on this one when there are others in far better shape," he said, his voice testy.

"Perhaps you will soon understand that concept," Severus said, still staring at Harry, willing him to understand, or at least acknowledge, the metaphorical speech in which they were engaging, whether with knowledge or unwittingly.

Harry let go of the small tree and shook his head. That gnawing, edgy feeling he been getting around Mr. Snape was back. "I'll go get John. He can take care of you from here."

"No need to rush, Mr. Potter. Do you have another customer than needs attending? Any chores? Mr. Wells assured me that I would have your undivided attention for the afternoon. Was he mistaken?"

Harry gulped and shook his head, nodded, and then shook his head again, confused and flustered. Just what was Mr. Snape playing at?

Severus smiled. "Good. There are a few others I might like to purchase as well." Severus worked through the remaining specimens at a methodical pace. Every once in a while, he cut his eyes to the side. From the periphery of his vision, he could see Harry standing to the side, wary and uncomfortable. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, what are your plans when you finish school?"

"What?" Harry blurted, reeling from the abrupt conversation shifts. The tilt-o-whirl was in full form.

"Your plans. After school."

Harry stared at him blankly.

Severus sighed. "Your preferred occupation. Your hopes and dreams for the future," Severus sneered.

"Get a job, I suppose," Harry said. "Find a flat to share, or a room or something. Move away from the Dursleys." Harry shrugged. "I haven't given it much thought."

"What kind of job?"

Harry shrugged again, annoyed. "I haven't given it much thought, I said," he spat. "Is this the only tree you'll be needing today, sir?" he challenged, trying in desperation to return the conversation to the trees.

Severus tsked. "You're what, fourteen, fifteen? You'll be done with school soon. It's almost time to apply to University."

Harry snorted. "University? Right," he mumbled.

"Oh, dear," Severus said with malicious glee in hopes of baiting Harry, "I seem to have hit a nerve. I apologize, Mr. Potter. I didn't realize your marks were so dismal."

Harry's hands curled into fists and his face flushed with anger. "Oi! My marks are near perfect!" he blurted without thinking. He clamped his mouth shut and clenched his teeth, determined not to say anything more. He would not let Mr. Snape get to him this way.

An idea came to Severus then . . . perhaps a graceful way out for everyone. "Then I am confused, Mr. Potter. Why wouldn't you continue on to University? Surely your aunt and uncle have encouraged you to apply to University? I imagine they are quite proud of you, yes? Have all of your little certificates and awards of excellence proudly displayed throughout your cheery little home."

Harry said nothing as he looked away and ground his teeth. He was not going to play along with this. He was not. The bloom of frustration began creeping across his cheeks and neck.

Severus continued on. "Draco tells me your cousin is a boarder at another school. It must be wonderful for you to have your aunt and uncle's undivided attention. How they must dote on you. Oh and with that roving band of bullies who seem to only target you, I imagine they're very protective. Tell me, Mr. Potter, which top-drawer solicitor have they retained to prosecute on your behalf?"

Harry's face turned an alarming shade of red as his lips pursed into a thin line. "Are you going to buy the effing tree or not?" he snapped.

"You will not speak to me that way, Mr. Potter," Severus growled as he advanced on Harry, noting that the blossoming color had all but withered. "Am I clear?"

Harry nodded, his upper lip curling in defiance even as he continued to back away. "Yes, _sir_," he taunted. "Shall I have this loaded for you, _sir_, or would you like to see anything else, _sir?_"

"Have I struck a nerve, Mr. Potter?" Severus asked with faux innocence, quietly marveling at Harry's display of anger. One could see so much more about a person when that person was impassioned and unhampered by conscious thought.

"I know what you're doing. Leave it. It's nothing to do with you," Harry hissed.

"I am merely purchasing plants for my garden, Mr. Potter. That I should choose to make conversation with you is my own business. As it is, I think I've gotten what I need for today." Severus said.

Harry's shoulders sagged in relief, though it was short-lived.

"Tomorrow I wish to see all of your annuals. Same time? Oh, and Mr. Potter, I've already checked your schedule—I know you are working every day this week. Mr. Wells has graciously agreed to provide your services to me exclusively."

Harry shook his head. "Why are you doing this?" he asked in an angry murmur.

"I don't know what you mean," Severus said as he turned to leave. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Potter."

Severus had taken a few steps before a thought came to him. Perhaps they would do well to invite Harry for dinner, soften him up over brisket and fresh made rolls before springing his idea on him. "Mr. Potter, I nearly forgot. Narcissa wanted to invite you for dinner next Wednesday, say seven o'clock?"

The oddest expression Severus had ever seen passed over Harry's face before all emotion was completely shut away. "Not on your effing life," he said before turning on his heel and walking to the back of the nursery.

Severus's lips pursed and his eyebrows knitted together. That was not the reaction he'd expected, not by a long shot. And then there was the issue of Narcissa's bizarre reactions whenever Harry's name was mentioned. It was time to get a few answers.

Narcissa looked up from the paper when she heard the backdoor open. "Back so soon. I see no new progress has been made in the garden. Have you run off Mr. Straithwaite already, Severus?" she asked with a smirk.

"If you are referring to that bumbling oaf named _Steve_, I have not run him off—he's been dismissed for bald incompetence. Really, Narcissa, how could you allow that cretin in your garden?"

Narcissa chuckled as she turned the page. "He does just fine, Severus. We can't all be like you, now can we?"

"More's the pity," Severus mumbled as he sat down at the table. "Where's Draco?"

"I sent him on a walk. He's been moping around all afternoon and was driving me insane."

"I see," Severus said as he rested his palms on the table and stared at Narcissa. Narcissa pretended not to notice as she scanned the society pages and local news.

"There's to be a benefit for the Balthor Boy's Home. Perhaps I should contribute. Take Draco with me, introduce him to some of our circle," Narcissa mused to herself. Severus said nothing in response. The paper rustled some more. "Now that is a ghastly picture of Miranda Pettibone. Canary yellow?" Narcissa tsked. "It's not even in fashion, let alone it makes her look like a bloated banana."

"Narcissa," Severus cut in, "I can wait you out, but grow tired of these games. They are as useless as spiteful gossip about a social matriarch's ill-conceived evening gown. Let us cut to it. I saw young Mr. Potter this afternoon. On a whim, I invited him to dinner next week, said it was from you. Do you know he had the most bizarre reaction I've ever seen. I wonder why that is?"

The paper snapped closed. For an instant, Severus thought he saw the pain of guilt mar Narcissa's winsome features. She smoothed them out effortlessly, though, as she folded the paper and laid it on the table. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked with a tone that rung of forced disinterest.

"What has you so rattled about Harry Potter? For that matter, why would he be so rattled by you?"

"I haven't a clue as to what you are referring."

Severus leaned forward, pressing his palms into the table. "I have never known you to be a coward, Narcissa Malfoy. Draco isn't here. There is no pressing business or distractions, just you and me. Every time that boy's name comes up you act as though someone has said the name Lucius Malfoy."

Narcissa looked away. "I really don't--"

Severus's palms slapped the table. "Stop this," he hissed.

Narcissa turned to him, her glare matching his own. "What is it that you want me to say, Severus? I don't even know what you're talking about."

"You know precisely what I'm talking about, Narcissa. We talked frequently when Mr. Potter was a young boy about his ghastly family, about the way they treated him, but I never had reason to suspect that there was more going on. Not until yesterday. But you—you've been acting as though you know far more than the rest of us and whatever it is has left you feeling guilty. Did you suspect that he was being abused?"

"Severus, I--"

"—Did you or not? It's a simple question--"

"—I don't know what--"

"Answer me!" Severus roared.

Narcissa's eyes glittered with some enigmatic emotion. "Yes," she spat. "Yes, I suspected. Yes, I think I even knew! Is that what you want to hear, Severus? Is that it?" Narcissa broke down into sobs. "Is that what you wanted to hear?" she whispered.

Severus sat back. He'd not expected that answer, not really. "How long?"

Narcissa sighed and wiped away her tears. "The night before Draco left for school. The night we'd thought the boys had been kidnapped by Trotter Blackmun. I saw bruises around Harry's arm and few smaller ones across his collarbone. He told me he'd fallen."

"And you believed him."

"No." Narcissa paused and looked away. "No, I did not," she whispered. She stood and wandered towards the window over the kitchen sink. She stared out over the garden, her gaze resting on the large, squashy hydrangeas at the corner of the house. She'd not been able to bring herself to plant lace caps.

"Why didn't you do anything? Why didn't you say something?"

"I promised myself that once I got Draco safely to school I'd confront the Dursleys with my suspicions. Then things started happening with the house, I had packing to attend to, meetings with solicitors. One day became two, became three, four. A week went by. Harry seemed the same as he'd always been---a melancholy child with the spirit of an angel. He wasn't sick, there were no obvious signs of injury. Two days after Draco left, Harry was out playing in his garden as if nothing had happened. He smiled shyly in my direction when he saw me, but made no move to interact. He seemed fine. So, I started second guessing myself as the days went on. I was sure I'd just imagined what I'd seen—made too much of it. I was overwrought that night. I think I would have processed paper cuts as ghastly wounds that night.

"But I watched them—the Dursleys, I mean—to the point of stalking them. I think I was waiting to catch them in the act. It would have been so much easier to confront them under those circumstances. But nothing else happened. One week turned into several and then it was simply too late. I let it go.

"The day I moved away, Harry came to me and gave me a small bunch of lace caps, just like the first time he'd come over. I could tell he wanted to say something to me, but . . . well . . . I don't think I wanted to hear it. He must have figured that out, because he told me he'd miss me and my chocolate chip pancakes before trotting back to his own yard. His own life. And then . . . I left.

"I often thought of him, you know. Wondered how he was. I assured myself that he was fine. When Draco told me what he'd seen, how Harry had acted . . . I just want it to go away," Narcissa whispered in a pained voice.

Severus sat in silence. "It's not going to go away. I am going to do what I can to help him, Narcissa. I am sorry, but I am not willing to let this go away."

"He practically lived with us for years, you know. Sometimes . . . sometimes it was almost as if I had two sons. When I think about . . . you have to understand, that night . . . Trotter Blackmun . . ." Narcissa whirled around. "Why? Why, Severus? Why do you care so much for a boy you met a handful of times and whom you haven't seen or thought of in four years?" "_Why you and not me? How could I have let this happen? How can I live with myself?_" remained unasked.

Severus shrugged. "The answer is a bit odd," he murmured. "Except to say that he was a most extraordinary boy and I cannot bear to see that squandered by a sullen, angry young man who is as much at the mercy of those who hurt him and those who stand by passively and allow it to continue. He needs us, whether he can admit to that or not, he does. Perhaps I am willing to do this because no one else is. There is a wild brilliance in him that simply needs to be coaxed out."

"Do not start waxing poetic about that, that yellow spider orchid you saved from certain death a few years ago! You and your damn plant analogies," Narcissa said with a weak smile, hoping for a small reprieve from the unrelenting guilt she staggered under.

Severus played along for a moment. He harrumphed. "It was not some silly little orchid, Narcissa. It was a _Caledenia xanthochila_. Have you any idea how rare that species of orchid is? It exists only in a small area in the Wimmera region of Australia and, before the Flora and Fauna Guarantee Act was passed—on which I provided technical assistance if you will recall—it was nearly extinct!"

"You're doing it again," Narcissa said before she returned to the table and sat down.

"What? What am I doing?"

"Going to the scary plant place."

"You know, Narcissa, we humans could learn a lot about life through the study of plants, and you're stalling."

"Really? Like what, Severus?" Narcissa asked, ignoring the 'stalling' comment.

A rush of anger washed over Severus. The image of an eleven-year-old Harry sprang into his mind's eye, battered and bruised from a day at the lake, terrified that his 'secret' had been discovered. "How to show distress and need without ever saying a word," he whispered.

Narcissa sighed and slumped under the weight of her resignation. "I deserve that, I suppose," she whispered. "You blame me, don't you?"

Severus looked away. "This is not about assigning blame, Narcissa. That will not help him. Not now. Nor will it help you."

"You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"How can I? How can we? It is staring us in the face, Narcissa. You, we, can no longer pretend it's not there. It may have been easier when he was a shy child, but he is no child. He is a young man full of righteous anger with no idea how to properly express it. There is still a spark of hope there, I know it. But it will not remain for long."

Narcissa straightened and nodded. "Let's get started, then. What do you propose we do?"

Severus, who was never lacking in words, found himself startled into a lack of words.

"Don't you ever think I didn't care for Harry," Narcissa said, her eyes blazing. "I . . . I did not do what I should have when I had the chance. I can't change that, but I can damn well try and do something to help him now." Narcissa was amazed that, instead of the pressure of her guilt increasing, some of it burned away in the face of her commitment.

Severus hesitated, remembering Harry's reaction when he'd mentioned Narcissa. "I don't think he'll be particularly appreciative of your help," he said as gently as he could.

Narcissa squared her shoulders. "You don't think I know that? You don't think I've spent hours, days, feeling the weight of my guilt? Wondering what he must think of me? I wasn't ready to face that before, I don't know if I'll ever be ready, but I am willing. If things are as you say, then he needs everything we can give him, regardless of whether he wants it. Even if he never forgives me, I still want to help him." Narcissa looked down at her hands for a few moments, gathering in her emotions before they overwhelmed her. "Enough of this. Tell me what you propose."

Severus's fingers traced the grain of the table's top. "I was thinking that Wolsford might be in need of a new student. Harry let it slip that his marks are near perfect. He has an obvious interest in botany and would do well there, I think."

"Wolsford," Narcissa repeated. "Well that's . . . you don't do things by halves, do you?"

"It will get him away from those awful people and will give him every opportunity he deserves. Draco will be a good influence, I think, and Harry will know someone there."

Narcissa bit her lip. "Do you think the boys will be able to rekindle their friendship?"

"I do."

Narcissa nodded. "Right. Well, let's get started then. I'll call the Headmaster and get the application forms. How will we get Harry to apply, though? The Dursleys won't do it."

Severus studied his fingernails. "I have an idea, but I imagine everything will fall apart before being set to rights. Can you handle that?"

"I'll have to, won't I? Yes. Yes, I can."

It took another week for Severus to wear Harry down again. He'd gone back to the nursery the next day and the day after that. Each time he purchased a ridiculous number of shrubs and bedding plants. He insisted on working only with Harry, a demand with which Harry dutifully complied under the fierce gaze of Mr. Wells. Harry did as he was asked, but became a little more sullen, a little more withdrawn, the more Severus continued to push harder on the more personal subjects.

On the third such day—Severus visiting on the pretense of needing assistance with the difficult decision between floribundas and hybrid teas—Harry stopped being polite and snapped.

"I'm just not sure. The Floribundas are certainly more fragrant, but the hybrid teas are more beautiful. What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Potter?"

"Well the floribundas are easier to care for, far more disease resistant." Harry paused. "You know, sir, there's a new study out about a combination of the floribunda's disease tolerance and fragrance with the hybrid tea's symmetrical budding. I don't know if any of the grafts are available, but I'm sure Mr. Wells could help you find out."

"A budding botanist, I see. I read that study—it's an intriguing premise. Tell me, Harry, do you study botany at school?"

The tension Severus was used to seeing returned to Harry's shoulders. "Um, we don't have classes like that."

"I see. How did you find out about the study, then? Do your aunt and uncle support your intellectual pursuits?"

Harry sighed and squeezed his eyes closed. "I don't know what you're playing at, but it's not going to work. I'm tired of this." Harry tried to turn away, but Severus gripped his arm. Harry flinched. As Severus pushed up Harry's sleeve, Harry snarled and snapped and tried to twist out of his grasp.

"Who does this to you?" Severus asked in a menacing whisper as he brushed his thumb over the fading bruises.

"I told you—bullies."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe," Harry spat. "Leave me alone!"

"Narcissa told me, Harry. She told me what she saw all those years ago. I know."

Harry's eyes blinked before his face twisted into a grotesque mask of anger. He yanked his arm from Severus's grasp. "Fine," he spat. "You've found out my deep, dark secret, _sir_. So my uncle smacks me around every once in a while. Big deal. Big sodding deal!" he screamed, attracting the attention of other customers. "Why the fuck do you even care? Why are you here? Where were--" Harry's voice choked. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I don't need your help and bloody well don't want it. So sod off and leave me the bloody hell alone!" he screamed before he ran off.

"I am not that easily deterred, Mr. Potter," Severus murmured as he watched Harry run away.

Severus returned to the nursery two days later, determined to make progress. He had the Wolsford application in hand and was already thinking through the various ways that he could maneuver Harry into at least considering applying.

"Ah, Mr. Wells. So lovely to see you again. I have an appointment with Mr. Potter, as you know."

Mr. Wells looked to the side. "Sorry to say, Mr. Snape, but the lad called in sick today. He won't be in the rest of the week, it seems."

Severus's stomach plummeted. "I see," he said, barely able to keep his alarm at bay.

"John over there can show you anything you need to see."

"Actually," Severus said, thinking quickly, "I was rather hopeful that I could discuss something with you. I'm in a bit of a spot. We had a young man working for us doing the planting, but we've had to sack him. I'd hoped that I could employ Mr. Potter on a temporary basis to assist me."

Mr. Wells started to protest.

"I'd pay you for the loss, of course. And I'll pay Mr. Potter's wages as well. It would only be for a few days."

Mr. Wells narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, scrutinizing Severus as he had the week prior. "I suppose we could work something out," he said with a slow drawl. "I'll have to let Harry know, of course."

"Why don't you let me? If it's all right with you, I'll let Mr. Potter know personally."

"Fine, fine," Mr. Wells said as he flapped one of his hands back and forth in a dismissive wave. "You can have him Monday through Wednesday, but that's all. I need him around here—he's the only one with any sense!" Mr. Wells barked in John's direction as he hobbled off to berate the young man for one thing or another.

Pleased with himself, Severus made haste in leaving, anxious to get to Harry.

Severus knocked on the door, his impatience spelled out in the rapid taps of the knocker. He waited a few moments before knocking again, his strikes heavier and faster than before. At long last the door opened to reveal a perfectly normal looking Harry Potter.

"Bloody hell," Harry swore, "what do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?"

Harry made to close the door but, as persistent as Draco had been, Severus wouldn't allow it.

"I went to the nursery today. Mr. Wells said you'd called in sick."

"Yeah, so?" Harry asked dully.

"Do you make all your guests have their conversations on the steps of your home?" Severus sneered.

Harry muttered something under his breath before shaking his head and opening the door just wide enough for Severus to get through. "Well?" he barked as he gestured towards the opening.

"Your hospitality knows no bounds, it seems," Severus said as he turned sideways to slip through the door.

The door shut with a something approaching a slam. Without a word, Harry walked towards the kitchen and flopped down in a chair. "What do you want and why are you here?"

Severus sat. "Are you injured?"

"What?" Harry asked, not expecting the question.

"I asked you if you are injured. I thought perhaps you'd called in sick because you and your uncle had gotten into a row. I thought perhaps he'd, what did you call it? Oh, yes, I thought he might have 'smacked you around' a bit."

Harry snorted as he looked around the bleak little kitchen. Severus followed his gaze and found fruit bowls sitting empty, cupboards closed tight, and no sign that anyone inhabited this space.

"He's not even here," Harry finally said.

"What?"

"I said he's not here. He, they rather, are at their summer house in Majorca. Dudley's off for the summer so they've left for a three week holiday."

"And they've left you here? Alone? Fourteen years old and they've left you for three weeks?"

Harry laughed. It was a brittle, dissonant sound. "Of course they have. What? You thought they'd take me with them? I've been taking care of myself for a long time, sir. I don't need them and I don't need you."

Severus was trying to process everything he'd heard, but was failing. "Why did you call in sick, then? Are you ill?"

Harry cocked his head to the side. "To get away from you, of course. I don't know why you're suddenly so interested in me, but do us all a favor and leave it. There's nothing going on here that is any concern of yours."

"Are you mad? Of course it's my concern. Harry, these people are hurting you, neglecting you. You can't possibly want to live like that."

"Oh, and you're offering something better, are you? Please. It's all the same with you people. You'll lose interest soon enough. Given the choice between me and something else, you'll choose the something else. I don't play those games anymore."

"This is not a passing fancy for me. Or for Draco or Narcissa. We want to help you, Harry. Let us help you."

Harry leapt to his feet. "That's a bloody lie! They don't want to help me. They never have. Don't you lie to me," Harry hissed. "Of all of you, at least you were honest with me, don't lie to me now."

Severus sat still and waited. Harry started pacing.

"She knew. She fucking _knew_ and she did nothing. Nothing! But then again, I shouldn't have expected anything," Harry continued, the anger bleeding away with each word, while the cold sense of resignation filtered in.

"There were extenuating circumstances, Harry," Severus began.

"There always are," Harry said without a trace of sarcasm, or anger. It was said with honesty, an understanding of the way the world worked, that no child of fourteen should comprehend.

"There don't have to be any more sick days, Harry. No more smacking around. No more holidays alone—by the way are you eating? How do you get around?"

Harry looked at Severus as though he was barmy. "I do have a job, you know—earn my keep and all that. And the Dursleys aren't stupid. They left money for food and things."

"Why can't you see that this is not the way it should be? Not the way it has to be?"

"I know what you're doing. Stop it. Please just leave me alone," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, but I can't."

"I wouldn't take help from you or _her_ or _him_ if you were the last people on this godforsaken earth."

"And here I thought you intelligent. You are quite stupid, aren't you Mr. Potter?"

"What did you say?"

"You won't accept help out of what . . . a sense of misplaced pride? Out of spite? One of your more brilliant plans, I'm to assume."

"I needed help _years_ ago. It never came. I've got less than two years to go and then I'm free of this place. I've made it this long without any assistance, I'm certainly not about to take any now, especially from those who could have done something before and didn't. It's not worth it to me to sell myself like that. You can wallow in your guilt for an eternity before I'd take anything from you," Harry spat.

"You've got enough crosses to bear without taking up mine and Narcissa's. Accepting help does not mean you forgive, Mr. Potter. And, for the record, your anger with Draco is dreadfully misplaced. He had no idea what you suffered. I love my godson, but he has lived in a very protective bubble for far too long. He is chomping at the bit to help you—angry and upset that you've been wronged so."

Harry looked up at that. Severus was pleased to see that spark of hope grow just a bit more, a shot of bright spring green through the dull haze. "He must have--"

"He didn't. I assure you," Severus said softly.

Harry nodded and bit his lip for a moment. "That still doesn't excuse her. Or you, for that matter. And just what do you plan to do? Swoop in and be my grand rescuers? I don't need that."

"Perhaps not," Severus said, smiling inwardly when Harry gave a start, a wounded look flashing across his face for a moment. Severus fumbled in his satchel and slid the Wolsford application packet across the table.

"What's this?" Harry asked, curious despite himself.

"A chance to save yourself," Severus murmured.

Harry opened the packet and slid the papers out. "Wolsford? You want me to apply to a bloody posh boarding school?"

"Yes. You'd be there most of the year. It would be a chance to study the things you enjoy. You can complete your A Levels there before going off to University. It's a chance, Harry, and an escape."

Harry threw the papers on the table. "You're joking with this."

"No, I am not. Please, just think about it."

Harry's fingers worked the hem of his shirt. They sat in silence for several minutes. "I could never afford it," Harry murmured.

Severus relaxed. Harry was thinking about it. "There are scholarships and other things. If accepted, and I've no doubt that you would be, how it's paid for should be the least of your worries."

Harry nodded, feeling very subdued. He was trying to squash the ebullient sense of hope and excitement that kept rising in his chest. Perhaps this was a way out. "Do you still teach there?"

"I do. Draco attends as well. You'd know people."

Harry nodded again. "Thanks for this. I'll . . . I'll think about it."

"Good. Of course, If you have questions or need help with the application, it's a good thing that Mr. Wells has loaned you to me the first part of next week to help plant Narcissa's garden."

Harry sighed in exasperation, too weary to fight with him on this. He could endure a few days of Narcissa Malfoy. Besides, if what Mr. Snape said was true, maybe it would be an easy way to get to know Draco again. Maybe there was something there worth saving. "You don't give up, do you?"

"No, Mr. Potter, I do not."


	13. A Dapple of Sunlight

**Disclaimer: You know the drill: The characters aren't mine and I don't make any money from this. **

**Many thanks to Sansa for the beta work and hand-holding.**

**Chapter 13:A Dapple of Sunlight Amongst the Chocolate Biscuits**

Harry wiped his hands across the front of his jeans. His palms were sweaty. He hated when his palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door. His hand wavered and dropped. 'No, not quite ready yet,' he thought to himself.

He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Mr. George in the motorized cart idling on the street. Mr. George had a curious expression on his face, one that seemed to ask Harry if needed any assistance. Harry's head snapped back around to the door before his expression could give an answer. The little voice in his head urged him to leave, to walk the half-kilometer to the bus stop and take the Number Four Knight bus straight back to Magnolia Crescent. He shook his head and adjusted the straps of the worn knapsack hanging from his shoulder. Who was he kidding? The Malfoys already knew he was there. He'd had to sign in at the guard gate while that officious little snot of a man had looked him up and down as if he were a common criminal.

Harry wiped his hands across his jeans again, more to give them something to do rather than out of necessity. He took a shuddering breath and glanced over his shoulder again. Ready for Harry's glance this time, the over-cheerful Mr. George gave an uncertain wave. Harry returned the wave with a bit more force than called for and his return expression was more glare than smile. Why he couldn't have just walked to the Malfoys from the gate, he didn't know, but Mr. George had insisted on driving Harry in that ridiculous little cart. Harry's mind had boggled while he was whisked through the posh neighborhood full of idyllic, rolling hills, sprawling mini-estates with jade-green grass, and overly successful people milling about doing successful and important thing while smiling perfect smiles and living perfect lives. Harry was no stranger to the trappings of wealth—the Dursleys were not poor by any stretch—but there was something so perversely innocent about this place that it set Harry's teeth on edge. Innocence was a farce.

Mr. George had, of course, chattered on and on about the grace and class of Mrs. Malfoy, the generosity of Mrs. Malfoy, how lucky a boy like Harry was to be working for Mrs. Malfoy. Harry had scowled at that. He'd not said anything about being there to work. Though with his over-large, faded gray tee-shirt and worn jeans and his frayed knapsack full of well-used gardening tools, how could he be there for any other reason? He doubted he'd be mistaken for one of Draco's friends. And now he was standing on the steps of the gracious Malfoy home, his hand poised to knock on a door he'd never thought he'd walk through again, Mr. George and his cart still behind him, watching.

"This is daft," Harry muttered to himself. Gathering his courage, he knocked and waited. He half expected to hear the rumble of boisterous little-boy feet bounding towards the door, as he had so many years ago. Not this time. Yet, this was not entirely unfamiliar. He had neither stone nor flowers, true, but he was plagued with that same overwhelming sense of insecurity that had nearly undone him at the age of seven. At nearly fifteen now, he fancied himself too old for such things, making his insecurity that much more infuriating.

Before Harry could dwell too long, the door snicked open, revealing Draco. His eyes seemed to light just a bit at seeing Harry. There was almost the twitch of a beaming smile and an abortive move closer before Draco straightened and remembered himself, allowing his smile to go flat. "Harry," he said, his voice cultured and tentative as his gaze roved over Harry's face, stopping where the bruise had been.

"Draco," Harry acknowledged as he readjusted the strap cutting into his shoulder.

Draco peered out the door, looking over Harry's head. "Ah, I see you've met Mr. George," he said as he sent the little man in the cart away with a smile and crisp wave.

Harry twisted around and watched the little cart putter away. "Er, yeah," he said as he shifted his weight back and forth.

"Odd little man. He's here all of the time, offering to help Mum with all sorts of things. Always referring to himself in the third person, too. I think he fancies himself a lord, what with his mini-cart and all. Be glad it wasn't purple day—he has these pants, you see . . . purple pants," Draco drawled as he watched Mr. George and his cart putter away.

The stress of the situation was getting to Harry. Nothing else could explain the short burst of laughter that escaped at the thought of Mr. George as a toady lord, dressed in striped, purple breeches and a purple velvet waistcoat. Draco turned at Harry's laugh, his gaze warm and his smile genuine. The familiarity of it made Harry feel very hot in the face. His stomach lurched a bit. He cleared his throat and shifted the strap of his knapsack once again.

Encouraged by the laughter, Draco stepped out onto the porch and circled Harry, stopping at the knapsack. "You still have that thing?" he said as he tugged at the knapsack strap.

Harry resisted the urge to twist away from Draco. He adjusted his grip on the strap and shrugged. "Still good," he murmured, hating the odd sort of relational limbo in which they found themselves. Harry knew Draco, just as Draco knew him, but he didn't _know_ Draco—not anymore. He'd been sure he didn't want to know him, either. But then Mr. Snape had come to his house, put all sorts of fanciful ideas in his head, including that Draco still wanted to be his friend if only Harry would let him.

An uneasy silence passed between them. They could still hear the little cart puttering in the distance. Draco cleared his throat. "I suppose you'd like to get started," he murmured.

"Er, yeah . . ." Harry said, trailing off, not knowing what else to say.

Draco sighed in a way that made Harry wonder what he'd meant to say instead. "Come on in, then. Uncle Severus is out back already. Mumbling about soil drainage or some such thing. Mum's gone for the day, so it's just us, I'm afraid." Draco noted Harry's shoulders relaxed as he said that. Misinterpreting, he smiled again, thinking that he had cut through the initial awkwardness with his witty repartee.

"Actually, soil drainage is really important," Harry said, glad to have a conversation topic he could chatter about without fear of straying into anything uncomfortable. "It affects growth and flowering, you see. Some plants actually do very well in boggy soil, but not many. I don't think Mr. Snape purchased any that would, though. In fact, you have to be quite careful of that with the Acers—er Japanese maples," he continued as they walked through the house towards the back.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You sound just like him," he teased.

"What's wrong with that?" Harry snapped, his nerves on edge. "Besides, I'm here to work, aren't I? It's not like I'm here for tea."

Draco winced. "Right," he mumbled. He ran a hand through his hair. "Well . . . I'll leave you to it," he said, his voice wavering a bit, just like his feet, which hadn't decided whether he was staying or leaving, if their back-and-forth shuffling was any clue.

Shame niggled at Harry. Draco had been nothing but pleasant. Perhaps that's what had Harry in such knots. As far as Harry knew, he'd given him nothing to be pleasant about. Harry cursed Severus Snape once again. The man was undoing his neat little life and Harry wasn't pleased. His gaze dropped to the ground and focused on Draco's shuffling feet. It was the only part of him that seemed to feel as nervous as Harry. When the feet finally decided which way to go, Harry looked up. An overwhelming need to say something, to close the conversation on a less sour note, overcame him. "Thanks," he blurted as Draco stepped inside.

Draco turned back, his gaze questioning.

"Thanks for . . . erm . . . thanks for walking me through the house," Harry said, wincing at how ridiculous he sounded.

Draco didn't seem to notice. His eyes were warm again and that same broad smile was back, the one that made Harry's face feel all hot. "Any time," he murmured, before going inside.

Harry licked his lips and wiped his hands on his jeans for what felt like the hundredth time as he stared at the glass garden door Draco had just closed. Not long after, a heavy, warm hand clamped on his shoulder, making Harry jump in surprise.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Severus murmured, amused at the interaction between the boys.

"Good morning, sir," Harry said as he turned and dropped his knapsack.

"Brought your own tools, I see."

"Er, yes sir. I hope that's not a problem. I'm just used to my own gloves and things."

"Not a problem at all. It is a welcome change, I assure you."

Harry nodded as he began taking out his things.

"Have you thought any more about Wolsford?"

"You really don't give up," Harry said with a mirthless chuckle. "I've not been here a half hour yet and you've started in. Why don't you just let this go?"

"I believe we've covered this, Harry. Do try and keep up. It won't do for me recommend someone for a scholarship placement when that someone cannot maintain the thread of recent conversation."

"Recommend? You never said anything about recommendations. You don't even know me."

"I know you much better than you think. Besides, I coerced that toad of woman at your school—what was her name? Ah yes, Delores Umbridge—to give me copies of your school records. You do like to hide your light under the bushel basket, don't you?"

Harry sputtered and went red in the face. "My records? Those are private! How dare you get my records?" he bellowed, his mind racing with what might have been in there, what more Mr. Snape might have learned.

"Calm down, you foolish child. I only requested your academic records, which are rather respectable, Mr. Potter. They say nothing of your deplorable home life."

"My home life is none of your business!" Harry snarled.

Severus sneered and stalked closer as he leaned down. Harry had to bend backwards to maintain eye contact.

"I am making it my business," Severus whispered in a voice that sounded like wind buffeting a wall of iron. "I should have made it my business much earlier, and for that I will always be regretful. But no matter, I am going to help you, whether you want help or not."

"I don't need you," Harry said, his eyes blazing with fury and his voice just as soft, just as firm as Mr. Snape's.

"Push all you want, Harry. I'm not going away. Neither is Draco." Severus almost added Narcissa to that list, but didn't. Even though true, he knew mentioning her name would only raise Harry's hackles further.

Harry felt the pang of something quite bewildering in the center of his chest. For some reason completely unknown to Harry, Mr. Snape, a virtual stranger, had told him he wasn't going away, no matter what Harry did. The oddest part of it was that Harry believed him. He almost gasped as the . . . . something in his chest, he really didn't know what it was, grabbed him and stole his breath away. He refused to listen to the voice that told him Mr. Snape was lying, or that Mr. Snape would tire of him, or that Mr. Snape wanted something from him. He couldn't bear not to believe him.

Severus cleared his throat. "I am not in the habit of waiting for meaningful responses to my questions. What is the status of your Wolsford application?"

Harry bit his lip and looked down at the flagstone patio. "I've--" he started. He rolled his eyes and swallowed. "I've written the essay," he said in the smallest voice he could muster. With his eyes firmly fixed on the craggy stones beneath his feet, he missed the pride and exultation that swept across Severus's face for an instant before it became as blank and unforgiving as before. "I haven't decided to apply yet, you know," Harry said with a scowl.

"Think faster," Severus said before turning to the day's assignment. "Come, we have much to accomplish," he said, pleased that his bit of nurturing was being to pay off.

Harry never would have believed it, but he was enjoying the work in the Malfoy garden. He was in his element as his hands worked the moist soil and packed it protectively around the new plants. Mr. Snape was working on the other side, leaving Harry with his copy of the landscape plan and his assigned plants. He was surprised that Mr. Snape had done nothing more than make a few cursory inspections, and even fewer comments. He'd offered a few suggestions here and there, which Harry had been happy to take. At the rate they were working, they would get most of the foundation planting done that first day. He was planting his last holly when he felt someone come up behind him. The sun that had been beating at his back was now shadowed.

"There's lunch, if you're interested," Draco said.

Harry looked up at the sun, surprised to see how much time had passed. On cue, his stomach rumbled. "Great. Thanks," he said as he stood. He dropped his gardening gloves on the grass and followed Draco to the patio. There was an assortment of small sandwiches, fruit slices, and biscuits on the patio table. A pitcher of iced lemonade stood to the side. Without further invitation, Harry grabbed several of the sandwiches, a few orange slices and more than a few chocolate biscuits.

"Still like chocolate, I see," Draco said with a chuckle as he made his own plate of sandwiches and biscuits.

"Yeah, still like chocolate," Harry said between mouthfuls of egg salad. "You don't have to sit here with me, you know," he said, feeling uneasy. Harry was sitting on the ground, his legs sprawled and bent, his forearms resting on his knees.

Draco hesitated for a moment. "I want to," he said with a shrug. "Thought it might give us a chance to catch up a bit more."

"Whatever," Harry said as he toyed with the crust on one of the sandwiches. Draco had that pensive, questioning look about him that meant he wanted to ask deep, meaningful questions. Harry was well acquainted with the look, though not from Draco. He looked around for Severus. His absence was far too convenient, Harry thought. "Where's Mr. Snape?"

"He's eaten already—had some errand to run. Said something about phosphate, why I haven't the foggiest."

Harry nodded, mentally cursing Snape and his obvious meddling. Forcing his way into his house, harassing him at work, stealing his school records. This convenient lunch bore all the markings of a Snape-sprung trap.

"Plant thing," Harry finally said in explanation before pinching off a bit more sandwich. He chewed slowly while watching Draco out of the corner of his eye. Draco was fiddling with his own sandwich. Harry braced himself.

"So, Uncle Severus said you're really good with plants."

Okay, that was an easy one. Harry could answer that without much thought. He shrugged. "I don't know about that. I like them, is all."

"I remember. About you liking the plants, I mean," Draco said.

Harry said nothing in return as he took another bite of his sandwich, hoping that he was being rude enough that Draco would give up and leave. Unbidden, Mr. Snape's words from earlier about how neither he nor Draco would go away, no matter what Harry did, came back. Bloody hell, that bizarre feeling in his chest was back!

"Remember all of that time we spent in your garden at first?"

Harry pinched another bite of sandwich and popped it in his mouth, struggling to seem indifferent. "I remember," he began as he swallowed, "a little blond-haired prat who followed me around all day chattering about cats while I worked." Surely that had been enough to make Draco go away, Harry thought.

Draco's gaze dropped to his plate. Harry thought he hear him mumble something about Harry being the prat, not him. Harry almost smiled at that. Maybe he couldn't rattle Mr. Snape, but he knew how to get to Draco. Draco would give up soon and go back into the house and do what ever it was he did these days, Harry was sure of it.

But Draco didn't leave. He didn't give up. As they finished their sandwiches in silence Harry realized Draco's stubbornness matched his own.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Draco asked, struggling to start the conversation once again.

Realizing that Draco wasn't leaving any time soon, Harry shrugged and took a long drink of lemonade before plucking a chocolate biscuit from his plate. These were the really good biscuits, he knew. He took a small bite. His eyes fluttered closed at the taste. He savored while thinking about how to respond to Draco's question. "Don't do much of anything except go to school and work," he said, before taking another bite.

"What about your friends? Don't you do things with your friends?"

Harry shrugged, keeping his gaze distant. He wasn't about to give away that he didn't have any friends.

"Sounds boring," Draco said. Before he could say anything more, Harry took another bite of his chocolate biscuit. His eyes fluttered closed again and the tiniest groan escaped. Draco was transfixed. For a second, he saw the Harry he knew—the small, skinny boy with a mane of wild, black hair; the boy who loved chocolate chip pancakes, and chocolate éclairs, and chocolate biscuits; the boy who laughed with him and went on adventures with him and was his friend. Without a word, he transferred his chocolate biscuits to Harry's plate.

At the soft clatter of biscuits, Harry opened his eyes and looked down to see quite a few more on his plate. He blinked as he worked out how they'd gotten there. "Thanks," he said, wondering what Draco was playing at.

"No problem. So, um, what's your school like?"

"It's a school. Nothing much to say, really. Boring teachers, boring students, boring beige walls," Harry said as he tried to work out why Draco had given him the biscuits.

Draco nodded and bit his lip. He looked so forlorn that Harry nearly offered him his biscuits back. He sighed and gave in—just a little. "Er, so you go to Wolsford, right?"

Draco looked up, his eyes bright. He leaned forward a bit. "Yeah. Heard of it? It's fantastic."

"What's it like?"

"It's a castle for starters. There's loads of classes and interesting professors, every sport you can imagine. It's great."

Harry nodded. "Sounds brilliant," he said.

They talked for quite a while about Wolsford, Little Whinging and Mr. George and his purple pants. It was quite pleasant, Harry thought, as he relaxed a bit. When he did, he noticed a very curious thing. The more relaxed Draco became, the more of the "Draco" Harry remembered emerged. He was in the middle of relaying a story about his friend Blaise and someone named Mr. Filch. The story, for some odd reason, also involved a cat and an overturned mop bucket. It was during the part where the mop bucket and cat met under rather unfortunate circumstances—circumstances that somehow involved the Blaise fellow—that Harry noticed it. He realized he knew this person; he well and truly knew him. He found he'd missed him. Draco was hunched forward, his eyes bright with mischief, and his hands gesturing this way and that as he told his story. His hair had fallen in his eyes, no longer perfectly styled. His voice, though deeper and more mature, now, still had the same cadence and lilt he'd used when telling stories all those years ago. The patter and sway of his movements were just as entrancing now as they had been then. He'd been drawn to Draco's openness, his unflinching approach to life. Harry found he'd missed that. It was a rather profound sort of feeling.

Just as Harry arrived at his conclusion, he realized an awkward silence had descended. He'd missed the end of the story, it seemed. He'd no idea what had become of the cat, or the mop bucket. Not that Draco noticed. He'd turned pensive again.

"Can I . . . can I ask you a question?" Draco asked.

Harry tensed. He'd been waiting all day for this. He rather admired Draco's self-restraint. The old Draco would have demanded answers from Harry the moment he'd shown up that morning.

"Um, sure," Harry said, scrolling through the mental catalogue of responses he felt comfortable giving to the question he was sure Draco was about to ask.

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" Draco blurted.

Harry blinked as his mental catalogue search was brought to an abrupt halt. That wasn't the question he'd expected at all. "I'm sorry?"

"When I left for school. Why didn't you say goodbye?"

"Seriously? This is your question?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be? That really hurt, you know."

Harry's mouth fell open in disbelief. Of, course. How could he have forgotten? Everything was about Draco, what hurt Draco, what Draco wanted. Anger stabbed at Harry and pummeled him with its heavy fists. It was quite a different sort of feeling from the one that had coalesced in the center of his chest earlier. "Hurt? That really hurt? God, Draco, you are such an arse!" Harry blurted, feeling betrayed somehow—like he'd felt standing in the Malfoy's living room four years ago, watching himself unravel further and further from their lives as he pushed himself back into the shadows.

Draco jumped to his feet and ran his hand through his hair. "What is wrong with you?" he snarled. "I've been nice, accommodating, tried to have a conversation with you and all you can do is . . . is act like that," he said while waving his hands around as if they encompassed the whole of _that_.

The fists beat harder, the stabbing now more insistent. "What's wrong with me?" Harry snapped as he stood up and charged Draco. "There's nothing wrong with me. You're the one trying to pretend that the last four fucking years haven't happened. You want to know why I didn't say goodbye? Because you were a coward. You lied, Draco. You lied about me to save your arse. You hurt me, Draco. You betrayed me! If there was ever anyone I thought I . . . you weren't supposed to . . . damn it, Draco!" Harry stormed off the patio.

"Hey, wait a second. Harry—wait," Draco called, as he ran to catch up. He grabbed Harry's shoulder, saying, "Wait a second," before Harry whirled around and knocked his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" Harry hissed as he scrambled away, startled by Draco's touch.

Draco's eyes went wide. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Draco said. "I wasn't . . . I didn't mean to . . . I wasn't trying to startle you."

Harry took another step backward. He dug the heel of his trainer into the ground. He ducked his head as he felt the heat of embarrassment suffuse his skin. He nodded. He knew that wide-eyed look, too. That was the one he got when the other person—believing that he was regularly beaten, or some other such ridiculous flight of fancy—treated him like a skittish foal .

"Look, can't we talk about this? I really want to talk to you, Harry. I want to know what's happened to you. And, yeah, you hurt me. I want to know about that, too. And if I hurt you, well . . . I want to know about that more than anything," he whispered.

Harry twisted his lips and bit the inside of his cheek while the heel of his trainer continued to dig, making a shallow rut in the ground.

"I'm sorry for lying," Draco whispered. "I didn't know it would hurt you so much. It's just that . . . I thought my mum had died, you know? I couldn't bear to see her angry with me."

"And that's supposed to excuse it?" Harry snarled, before ducking his head again and returning to the fascinating task of rut-making.

"No. No, it's not. It's just an explanation, Harry. And it was four years ago. Isn't that long enough?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek again. Where in the hell was Snape? He thought about demanding hazard pay—one should not be subjected to so much emotional upheaval in the course of a day. "Okay, yeah, fine. I get it, Draco. Just . . . just leave me alone."

Harry turned and dropped to his knees, pulling on his gardening gloves. "No," he heard behind him. Harry twisted around. "What?"

"I said no. I'm not just going to leave you alone. I have questions too, you know." When Harry said nothing, Draco huffed. "Well? What are you waiting for? You owe me that much."

Oh, how the anger beat at him now. Its fists flew across his heart and stabbed at his eyes, blinding him. Harry leapt to his feet, whirled around, and faced Draco, his eyes a venomous green. "I owe you nothing," he hissed. "If anything, you owe me. I took the blame for you that night, if you'll remember," he said, his voice rising. "But Mum, Harry wanted to go to the lake, He begged me to go to the lake. He made me take him to the lake," Harry said in a whiny, sing-song voice, meant to imitate Draco at eleven. "It was you who wanted to go to that bloody lake, not me," Harry snarled in his regular tenor voice as he took a step forward, "It was you who dragged us around all day. It was always you, Draco. But I took the blame. I didn't tell, did I? And what did you do? Huh? What did you do? You bloody left!" Harry screamed before choking on his words. The anger retreated, leaving behind the sort of prescience that only shock could bring. He gasped as he realized all he'd just said. He'd not meant to say that. Goddamn sodding Malfoy! Harry had to get out of there. "Get out of my sight! I don't owe you a bloody thing!" Harry roared as he tried to push Draco to the side and scramble away.

Draco smiled that warm, now infuriating smile as he sidestepped Harry. "Perhaps not, but at least now you're talking to me," he said as he grasped Harry's wrist and kept him from running.

"What?" Harry asked as he stopped mid-push, too bewildered to realize Draco was ignoring the no-touching rule, and too bewildered to remember that, at that moment, he hated Draco Malfoy.

"I tried being nice, but it seems like the best way to get you to talk to me is to rile you. Hmm . . . maybe Uncle Severus is onto something after all."

"You've lost your bloody mind," Harry blurted, feeling as though the world had tipped over and gone inside-out. Draco smiled again. Harry had the sudden urge to knock it off Draco's smug, pointy face. "Stop with all of the bloody smiling," Harry said with a scowl as he shook his hand free. "It makes you look like a bloody ponce."

Draco chuckled, pretending as if he hadn't heard Harry at all. "You should see yourself. Jumping around, snarling and snapping, that mop of hair flying about." Draco cocked his head. "You still remind me of a little lion, you know. I've missed him—the boy that he was. What's happened to him? And why did he never tell me what—well, you know. I just want to be your friend, Harry. Let me. Please."

Harry looked away. He felt wrung out. It seemed Draco had inherited his godfather's penchant for emotional tilt-o-whirls. He wanted to be Harry's friend, even knowing what he did, Draco still said he wanted to be his friend. It didn't make any bloody sense. He should be running away from, not towards Harry. The whole sordid mess was overwhelming and yet, that weight was back in the center of his chest, it's edges more sharply defined. It smacked of hope and that scared the hell out of Harry. "I can't do this right now," he whispered.

Draco nodded. "I understand," he murmured. "I just want to help you. I don't understand why you don't want that. Why you don't want that from anyone."

Harry shook his head. He had a choice to make in that moment, he knew, and it was one that had to be made. Right then. He closed his eyes and did something he never did. He took a chance.

"You've been home, what, a week or two? This is . . . let me think about things a bit, yeah? I can't just . . . I can't pretend that I haven't seen or heard from you in four years."

"I wrote--"

"—Calm down. I believe you, okay? I'm sure . . . I'm sure the Dursleys had something to do with the letters. But that doesn't change things. Just . . . just give me a little bit of time to sort this out."

Draco studied Harry for a few moments before nodding. "What now then?"

Harry smiled. It was so infrequent that he did so, the skin felt odd stretching across his teeth that way. "I need some help with the privet."

Draco resisted the urge to shudder. Plants really weren't his thing. But, for some unknown reason that he simply couldn't puzzle out, Harry was, and, at the moment, he wanted help with the plants. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and that was enough. "Let's get started then."


	14. Return of the Gypsy Kings

**Disclaimer:**This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:**Thank you to Sansa, the best beta ever. I couldn't do any of this without her.

**Chapter 14:Return of the Gypsy Kings**

Sheaves of paper lay in neat piles on the Dursleys' dining table. The Wolsford application was almost finished. Harry bit his lip and looked over the application again, checking to see if he'd missed anything. There was, of course, one glaring omission—there was no signature from Harry's "parent or guardian." Harry snorted at the thought of the Dursleys guarding anything, much less Harry. The Dursleys didn't know about Wolsford and Harry hoped to keep it that way. Though, he hadn't been sure how he'd get around the requirement that they sign it. Mr. Snape had sneered at him and told him that he would take care of that.

All that was left was Harry's signature. Harry picked up the pen. He hesitated. After a few moments, he laid the pen back on its side. "Not just yet," he said to himself as he stood and wandered over to the refrigerator, perusing his dinner options. "Leftover curry or wilted lettuce. Gee, Harry, what ever will you choose," he murmured to himself with an exasperated sigh.

Harry left the kitchen and threw himself on the couch. He spent an inordinate amount of time wiggling into a comfortable spot simply because he could. It wasn't often he got to sit on the good furniture and he was damn well going to enjoy it while he could. The Dursleys were off on holiday once again leaving him to fend for himself. Harry didn't mind in the least. Vernon had accrued too much leave time and it had been "suggested" that he take extensive summer holidays to get rid of the excess leave. Harry rather thought it had something to do with that secretary Vernon couldn't seem to keep his hands away from, if Aunt Petunia's shrill, shrieking monologues were anything to go by. Too occupied with other things, and outside of the occasional smack, hard jostle, or cuff, Vernon had left him alone.

Their absence was rather a blessing, Harry thought, as he twisted around and surveyed the stacked piles of application essay revisions, entrance exam scratch sheets, photocopied application pages, and his abortive attempts at explaining his stellar academic performance, complete lack of notable extra-curricular activities (he rather doubted bobbing and weaving was considered sport), and the ministerial stamp that branded him as a victim-cum-hooligan in that vague, politically correct way. He twisted back around. No, he was not going to think about Wolsford right now. He'd done nothing but think of Wolsford for days and days. He switched on the telly.

After an hour or so of pretending to watch a ridiculous variety programme, Harry realized he was chewing the inside of his cheek and he was thinking about Wolsford. "This is barmy," he said with a roll of his eyes. He twisted around again and looked at the stacks of paper, taunting him with their silence. "You can't make me," Harry spat before hunching over and running his hands through his hair. "Bloody hell, I'm talking to paper now," he said. He leapt to his feet and strode over to the table. He sat down and picked up the pen once more. With efficient, focused movements, he turned to the back page of the application, smoothed the paper and set the pen at the edge of signature line. He took a deep breath and . . . hesitated. Again. He tossed the pen on the table, watching it roll back and forth a bit before settling. "Damn it," he swore, the force of it making his fringe flutter. He rubbed the back of this neck. He stared at the pen lying innocently on its side, waiting for him to pick it up and sign the application. "Not yet! I still have time. I'm not ready," Harry growled. "Shite. I'm talking to the pen now," Harry muttered. He rubbed his hand across his face for a few seconds. He felt all twitchy. He couldn't stand to sit at that table one more second. He leapt to his feet, ready to make his circuit around the house once again.

He stared at the contents of the fridge, puttered to the living room, watched the telly listlessly, and told himself over and over that he was not thinking about Wolsford, or sentient papers and pens, or, or—Mr. Snape. This was his fault, Harry decided.

Mr. Snape continued to come by the nursery and harass him. As long as he was buying things, Mr. Wells let him do what ever the hell he wanted. Harry was sure he was going to go to work one day only to discover that Mr. Snape had rearranged the entire nursery by hardiness zone, cross-referenced by shade tolerance.

No. That wouldn't happen. He was too focused on other things—one thing, actually, Harry's Wolsford application. Mr. Snape had even gone so far as to warn Harry that if he didn't make a decision in the next few days, he would withdraw his recommendation and his support. His constant carping about it was giving Harry fits and, it seemed, making him have conversations with inanimate objects. Harry had tried to explain that he wasn't being insolent—he honestly didn't know what to do. He found that he couldn't explain why he might opt to stay where he was—where he knew how the world worked and knew his place in it—rather than fling himself into the unknown. He'd survived a long time by counting on the predictable. Wolsford was unpredictable.

Despite that reticence, though, Harry found himself drawn to the exotic appeal of upper crust boarding school life. It was a chance to be both himself and someone else while traversing and learning in elegantly appointed halls. There were other silly, trifling, reasons to go—daydreams of riding a horse for the first time, going on holidays to the seaside with his year mates, having proper meals made by someone else, participating in Wolsford traditions passed down from generation to generation—all of these small things stirred a longing in him that he'd not known was there. The idea of sharing that with people who seemed to genuinely care about him was even more alluring . . . and scary.

Harry thoughts took an abrupt turn from Mr. Snape to Draco. It had been several weeks since the planting project at the Malfoys. After their dramatic blow-up, Draco had worked with him, helping him where he could. Draco's moue of distaste at having to spread the fertilizer (after learning precisely what it was) was worth a few chuckles at his expense, but the fact that Draco had done it and had continued to do it, struck something within Harry. They'd spent quite a bit of time together since then. It was like it was when they were children, it seemed, Draco trailing after Harry and never giving quarter, dragging him along through life, forcing him to participate. He'd worn Harry down. They were renewing their friendship. Harry was glad of it, though he hated how wonderful it felt. He was terrified of getting used to it, of wanting it, of not being able to let it go should it leave him again.

The ring of the telephone startled Harry. A small smile flashed across his face. It had to be Draco. No one else called while the Dursleys were away.

"Hello," Harry answered. There was a hesitation at the other end of the line.

"Harry. Hi. It's Draco. Are you busy?"

"Incredibly."

"Somehow I doubt that. Listen, I was wondering if—well, if you'd like to come over for dinner. Afterward I thought we might go see that new film at the cinema in town, the one you said you thought looked good."

Harry hesitated. "Um. I don't know. The film sounds good. I just have, erm . . . I've got some things I'm working on here."

"You always say that."

"Well, it's true."

"Have the Dursleys come back yet? Is that why you can't come over?"

Harry sighed. "Draco, you know they haven't."

"All the more reason for you to come over, then. You shouldn't be by yourself. I can't believe they leave you there. Alone. That's . . . that's . . . well, you know what it is."

"We've been over this. I'm not talking about it again."

"Fine. Come to dinner, then. Uncle Severus or Mum can pick you up if that's the issue."

"No, it's not that."

"Well, what is it then? You keep turning down my dinner invitations, unless it's to grab something in town. That's awfully rude, you know," Draco said with a sniff.

Harry chuckled. Draco was still Draco. "I just have a lot going on here."

"Really? Like what? Watching plasterboard peel away from the walls while you pine away for your loving family to return?"

Harry scowled. "Look, you're not going to goad me into this."

"Sure I am. It's what I do. So, let's skip the dramatics, shall we? I'll have Uncle Severus come round about five-thirty, then."

"Draco--"

"—See you later, Harry."

"—Draco, I said . . . damn it," Harry swore under his breath when Draco hung up. "Damn it Draco, you have no idea what you're doing," he said to the plasterboard walls. He sighed. He could just call back and say that he wasn't coming. He could hide when Mr. Snape arrived and not go to the door. He shook his head. No, it was better to get this over with. It had been a long time in coming and Draco wasn't about to let it go. Besides, the left over curry looked a bit dodgy. He glanced at the Wolsford application and threw his hands up in plea or frustration, not sure which. His life had become far too complicated.

**oOoOo**

Draco hung up the telephone and smirked. He'd learned a long time ago that the easiest way to get Harry to do what he wanted was to give him little choice in the matter. Of course, that had backfired spectacularly on a few occasions, but this was too important not to take the risk. Draco was tired of everyone not doing anything about the "Harry situation," as he was calling it. Every time he tried to talk to his godfather about getting Harry away from the Dursleys, he told him to leave it alone. He hadn't spoken with his mother about it all—she'd been so jumpy and out of sorts lately—but he doubted she knew anything. Draco figured that would work to his advantage with what he had planned. He smiled and went in search of his mother.

"Mum," Draco said as he sauntered into the kitchen, "Harry's coming for dinner and then we're going to the cinema. Would it be all right if he stayed the night?"

Narcissa whirled around from where she was standing at the sink. "What?"

Draco blinked. He wasn't used to seeing his mother so unsettled. "I said--"

"—I heard you," Narcissa murmured. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "Fine," she said with a pleasant smile, determined to keep up appearances. It was better that they got over this, any way. It had been a long time in coming. She was surprised it hadn't happened earlier, when Harry had been over to help Severus plant the garden. But every time Harry saw her, he would back away, the expression would fall from his face, and he would murmur, "Mrs. Malfoy," in polite tones before scurrying away. "What time? Shall I make a roast?" Narcissa asked.

Draco blinked again. "Um, six o'clock. I'm going to ask Uncle Severus to pick him up at five-thirty. Roast sounds fine."

"Wonderful," Narcissa said in a thin, reedy voice.

"Mum, is everything all right? Should I have asked you ahead of time? You weren't planning anything, were you?"

"No, it's fine, my dragon. You—you just caught me by surprise."

"Okay," Draco said, not reassured in the slightest. "Thanks."

Narcissa watched Draco leave the kitchen before swearing under her breath. This was going to be a difficult night. All of her guilt-induced nightmares and thoughts came rushing to the forefront of her mind. She imagined a sullen and moody Harry standing, knocking his chair over, pointing a shaky finger at her, and accusing her of complicit child abuse in response to whether he wanted more summer peas. No, perhaps he'd show up with a blackened eye, or visible bruises, and then sneer in her direction as he explained or lied about them. Images of confrontation, screaming, crying, tipped bowls of whipped potatoes and shattering plates filled her mind. "Draco, you have no idea what you have done," she muttered under her breath as she dutifully began preparing a roast, feeling a bit like it was her last meal.

**oOoOo**

Draco stood in the doorway listening to Severus bark instructions on his mobile to someone named Passuer. His French was flawless, as was his Latin, Italian, and Portuguese.

"Non," Severus snapped as he paced back and forth, sighing irritably.

Draco crossed his ankles and leaned into the doorframe, amusement playing at his lips. This was a familiar scene—Severus pacing back and forth, yelling at his lab assistant for his or her incompetence. The only thing that ever changed was the accent.

"Non, Passuer! Je ne pense pas!" Sevuers paused for a moment, before his back went rigid and he let loose a string of obscenities. "Oui, Oui, Passuer! Oui, the Bletilla striata," Severus barked. "For the love of . . . Oui, je suis sûr que—Passuer, Passuer! I'm sure . . . Yes . . . Bon . . . Salut," Severus said before snapping the little mobile closed and tossing it onto his chair.

"Trouble at the lab?"

Severus turned around. "Oh, it's you," he said, still agitated from his conversation with Passuer.

"Sounds like you're having trouble with that orchid project."

"You have no idea. Do you need something?" Severus asked, still annoyed, still distracted.

"Yes, actually. I was hoping you could drive over to Harry's and pick him up around five-thirty. He's coming for dinner and then we're going to the cinema."

"You've worn him down, then," Severus sneered.

Draco picked at his jumper. "It's not like that. I just didn't give him a chance to say no."

"Yes, well that does seem to work with him. Have you asked your mother?"

"Yes, of course. She's thrilled to see Harry again," Draco hedged.

Severus stared at Draco, not believing him. "Well that is certainly interesting," he said after a long while.

"Yes, well, can you or not?" Draco snapped, feeling uncomfortable. There was something odd going on and he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Mind your tone," Severus said. "Yes, all right. I'll do your bidding."

"Does that make you my minion?" Draco teased, scrambling away before Severus could reach out, grab him, and knock some sense in him that Severus insisted he didn't have.

**oOoOo**

Three short knocks sounded at precisely five-thirty. Harry fought the urge to sink lower into the couch. He didn't move. He just needed a few seconds more to settle himself.

At five-thirty-one, three more knocks sounded. This time, however, they were accompanied by Mr. Snape's irritated staccato. "I am not in the habit of waiting for petulant school boys," he barked through the door. Even muffled by wood and stone, his voice had Harry scurrying off the couch and to the door.

"Coming," Harry said as he trotted to the hall and opened the door. "Sorry. I was . . . erm . . . just finishing . . . er, something," Harry stammered.

"I see. It wouldn't be your Wolsford application, would it?" he asked with a quirk of a brow.

"Leave it," Harry growled.

"You have only a few more days—"

"—I know, all right? I know. You've made it perfectly clear. Just, just stop—you're making me crazy with this—you've got me talking to pens and paper and, and the walls!"

Severus hesitated. "You didn't put that in your application essay, did you?"

"Bloody hell," Harry spat. "Leave it!"

Severus glared at Harry, but Harry refused to back down. "Very well," he murmured after several long moments. "Shall we depart?"

Harry snorted. "Righto, Jeeves. Do I get to sit in the back and everything?" Mr. Snape growled. Harry paled. "Just having some fun, Mr. Snape," he said as he carefully stepped around the glowering man and walked to the car.

**oOoOo**

Narcissa heard the car pull into the drive. Her hands faltered, causing her to drop the flowers she'd been arranging for the table. "Stop this," she whispered to herself before picking up the chrysanths again. She pieced them together quickly, dropping them into the waiting vase. "There. Done," she said as she picked up the vase and stared moving towards the dining room. She tried to keep her breathing even as she heard Draco open the front door. No. This was nothing more than a simple dinner. There was no reason to be so nervous. Despite that, Narcissa almost dropped the vase when she heard Harry's soft tenor voice. She stopped and took a deep breath. "Get a hold of yourself," she said, remembering that she was a Malfoy and she had survived far worse than this.

"Mum, Harry's here," Draco called as he, Harry and Severus entered the dining room.

Narcissa stilled for a moment before turning around. She smiled. "Harry. Lovely to see you again." Out of habit, she moved forward to kiss him on the cheek. Out of habit, he started to move away. Both stopped when they realized what they were doing. Narcissa noticed that Severus was staring at them. Watching.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry finally said with a short nod of his head. He cleared his throat. "Thank you for inviting me to dinner," he murmured, his eyes taking notice of everything in the room except her.

"My pleasure," she said, meaning it despite the formality of her tone.

"Dinner, then," Draco said, as he ushered everyone to the table. "We have a film to make," he said in excuse when everyone stared at him strangely.

"Well, we mustn't make you late," Narcissa said as she sat.

The night started out well enough. Harry's only response to whether he wanted any more summer peas was a polite, "No thank you." Outside of a few odd glances between the boys and Severus's hawk-like expression as he took in everything that was happening, dinner was a normal affair.

And then it went straight to hell.

"I read the most interesting article yesterday," Draco began as he made two neat cuts and took a small bite of roast.

"Really? Tell us," Narcissa said, feeling relaxed. Dinner was nearly over.

"About that awful mess in Shopshire—you know, the family that was abusing their three children and their neighbors knew, but did nothing about it. Well, until the youngest died, of course."

Narcissa choked on her wine. Harry's knife and fork clattered to his plate. Severus pretended nothing of consequence had just been said as he took a generous swallow of the pinot noir.

Draco glanced at his mother. Her jaw was set in a firm, grim line. That was exactly what he wanted to see. She was outraged. Perfect. "Can you believe it, Mum? The neighbors knew and they did nothing. What do you think of that?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. Her gaze snapped back and forth between Harry and Draco. Harry was glaring and was obviously nudging Draco under the table, as if to say, "What are you doing? I told you never to tell!" Her gaze moved to Draco, who was staring at her intently, daring her to say anything. So this was how it was going to be, then. Her own son was against her. Drawing on years of avoiding such unseemly confrontation, Narcissa took another bite of roast. "Severus," she said as her knife and fork made little stabbing motions, "Did I understand that you've hired a young man from Provence? How is that working?" she asked, taking a delicate bite.

Before Severus could respond, Draco interrupted. "Mum, did you hear me? What do you think of what happened in Shopshire?"

Narcissa took a generous swallow of wine, her gaze drifting over to Harry for a brief moment. His face was flushed, his eyes too bright. "Yes, I heard you," she said with a sniff. "That is inappropriate dinner conversation Draco, I was trying to save you a bit of embarrassment," she murmured politely, her gaze continuing to drift over to Harry, waiting for his reaction.

"I disagree," Draco said.

"Draco, stop it," Harry whispered, though it sounded more like a hiss to Narcissa's ears.

"No. I won't," Draco said. "Are we not going to talk about this? Are we going to pretend that Harry isn't in danger, living with those awful people? We've got to help him. Don't you see?"

"Draco, please," Harry pleaded.

"Perhaps this is not the best time, Draco," Severus said, finally joining the conversation.

"I think it's the perfect time. We're all here. It's time we talk about that ghastly pink elephant. Besides, it's time Mum knew what was going on," Draco said.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. "Draco, you don't know what you're—look, just let this go. Stop this."

"No. You won't look out for yourself, so I will. We will. We won't be those horrid, horrid people in Shopshire who turn their backs. All of those people should be hanged for what they've done."

"You think them horrid, do you?" Narcissa snapped before she could stop herself.

"Yes. Don't you?" Draco asked. When Narcissa looked away and said nothing, Draco continued. "You can't sympathize with those, those awful people," Draco said. "You can't."

The sound of Harry's chair clattering as he pushed it back caught everyone's attention. "Thank you for dinner. I think I'll head back. Draco, sorry, but I'm not up for the film. Mr. Snape. Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said before turning to leave.

"What is going on?" Draco demanded. "Harry, you can't leave. We won't let you. Will we, Mum? Mum?" Draco asked.

"Leave it," Harry barked. "You don't know . . . Draco, this is not . . . sod it all! Just leave it!"

"No!" Draco said as he grabbed Harry's arm and kept him from leaving. "You're not leaving. You're not alone. I won't let you go through this. I'm here, so is Uncle Severus and Mum. We aren't going to let this happen to you, Harry. We won't be those awful people in Shopshire."

"You already are!" Harry roared, shaking off Draco's hand.

"What? What are you talking about? We're trying to help you!"

Harry cursed under his breath. He'd not meant to say anything. "I don't need your help. I don't want your help. Get that through your thick head. The lot of you! I don't need you!"

"What's wrong with you?" Draco screamed back just as Severus rose from his seat.

"That is enough," Severus barked.

Neither Harry nor Draco paid him any mind. "Nothing's wrong with me, Draco, but there's something wrong with you. What would possess you to do this?" Harry tried to pull away once again, but Draco curled his fingers more tightly. "Let me go," Harry snarled as he tugged harder.

"No. I'm not letting you get away this time. It's time to sort this out. We want to help you, what's wrong with that? And as for why would bring this up, why wouldn't I? You're my friend. Stay still!"

Within seconds, the boys were locked in a bizarre tug-of-war, snapping at each other, pulling, snarling, all the while Severus barking at them about behaving like street hooligans and threatening to pull them apart.

"We're nothing like those people in Shopshire," Draco snarled as he made a grab for Harry's wrist.

"You are, you bloody are," Harry roared as he tried to kick Draco away.

"We didn't know, we didn't! How dare you say we did," Draco hissed as he darted away from a vicious kick aimed at his right shin.

"She knew! She did," Harry howled as Draco used his larger frame to pin him into a hug of sorts.

"You've lost your mind. She, who?" Draco snapped. "Stop kicking me!"

It became too much for Narcissa. Years of crushing guilt hit her as the melee wore on. She could stand it no more. "Stop this. Stop this instant!" Narcissa said as she stood. The boys paid no attention to her. "Stop! I knew! I knew, Draco. Please stop." The boys stopped and turned in astonishment. Harry couldn't believe she'd finally admitted it. Draco couldn't believe his mother was like, was like those people in Shopshire.

"Mum?" Draco asked in a whisper.

"I knew," Narcissa murmured as she fell back into her chair.

Silence fell, its effect stuporous. Harry and Draco stood in a parody of embrace, their hands still clutching at each other.

"What?" Draco asked after the initial shock passed. He let go of Harry and tottered forward a step. "That's . . . that's—no. It's not true. You're not—it's not true."

"It is," she said. She turned her gaze to Harry. "I am so sorry," she whispered, tears running down her face. "I am so very, very sorry."

Harry took a step back. He wrapped his arms around himself, hung his head, and nodded. He would have done anything—said anything—to get out of there. "Fine. Thanks. I'll—I'll just be leaving now."

Draco's hand reached backward and grabbed his wrist, preventing him from leaving.

"Let me go," Harry hissed.

"No," Draco said before turning back to his mother. "What do you mean you knew?"

"Perhaps it would be wise to have this conversation in the living room," Severus murmured.

Draco's gaze flitted to Severus. "Did you know as well, then?"

Harry looked up at that; his eyes were hooded and full of questioning.

"I suspected, but no, I did not know," Severus said.

"You're not much better, then," Draco said with a sneer.

The retort was on the tip of Severus' tongue, but he let it die at the look of distress on Harry's face. Severus was loath to see this play out this way. Draco, Severus suspected, was about to have his world turned upside down and Harry, his closely guarded secrets spilled. He watched Harry as Draco let go of his wrist and took another step forward. Severus could see Harry closing off, withdrawing. This would be painful, Severus knew, but it might just be what needed to happen.

Tell me," Draco snapped as he walked towards his mother. "Tell me how you could let that happen? Explain."

"You will not speak to me that way," Narcissa hissed, her tone cold and unflinching. "There were circumstances of which you are not aware. Either of you," she said, including Harry.

Harry edged further back until he was in the corner of the room. He hugged the wall with his back, wishing he could disappear. He'd thought about leaving, figuring he could slip out unnoticed while Draco and his mother had it out. But Mr. Snape's unwavering stare had him pinned. Harry wasn't going anywhere—not for a long while.

Harry fought to get his emotions under control. Mr. Snape's stare was unnerving and he had no desire to get into the middle of Draco and his mum. Harry looked down, trying to focus on the carpet. He almost laughed. He'd know the pattern of that carpet anywhere. He thought back to the times when he was a child, wishing he was a part of the Malfoy family, wishing he'd been imbued with their golden charm. He smirked to himself at the thought that the gold had been brass all along. The thought didn't leave him as vindicated as he'd thought it might. It made him rather sad.

He looked up when he realized Mrs. Malfoy had included him in the hysterical shouting match Draco was intent on waging. He crept back further still, cursing the walls as they refused to swallow him whole. This was not a conversation he ever wanted to have. He'd put this away, buried it carefully, hoping never to have to find it again. Of course, it would be Draco who would dig and dig and dig and fling back the hasps of his boundaries without a second thought. That's what Draco did. Harry found he couldn't begrudge him that.

"What circumstances? What could possibly justify this?" Draco said.

"You don't understand, Draco. If you would just listen," Narcissa pleaded.

"No. There is nothing that you could say that would excuse this. Nothing! How could you do that to him?"

Harry returned to staring at the carpet, pretending not to notice Mr. Snape's stare, pretending not to hear the conversation that Narcissa and Draco were having about him. It was par for the course, really. People always talked about him as if he weren't in the room, even when he was standing right there.

"You are behaving like a spoiled child. This is neither the time nor the place for this," Narcissa said.

Draco snorted. "Yes, propriety is ever so more important than the life of an abused child, isn't it, Mother? You disgust me. If only Father were here. He never would have stood for this. If Father were here--"

Narcissa drew herself to her full height and closed the distance between her and Draco in the space of a few steps. "Your father, you say," she snarled, cutting Draco off. "You think your Father would have done differently?"

"Narcissa," Severus whispered, his gaze leaving Harry for a brief second.

"Yes. He was brave and honest. He wouldn't have been a coward like you," Draco spat.

Narcissa ignored Severus. "Let me tell you a few things about your dear, dead father."

"Narcissa, this is not the time," Severus hissed as he strode over to Narcissa's side.

"I think it's time we spilled all the dirty little secrets," Narcissa cried as she stepped away from Severus.

"What are you talking about?" Draco asked, his gaze wide.

"Let the dead lie, Draco," Severus warned. Draco didn't listen.

"No. Mum is trying to push me off course. Father wouldn't have let this happen. Tell her, Uncle Severus."

Severus's lips pursed and he stared hard at Draco, willing him to turn away from this. Harry could see that. He could see that Draco's world was about to be upended. His heart leapt to his throat. He couldn't stand this.

"Uncle Severus?" Draco questioned, his voice—along with his resolve—wavering. "Tell her. Tell her she's lying. Father was brave. He was a hero."

"He was a shameless, spineless crook who got himself killed over greed. He left us with little more than a legacy of deceit and shame," Narcissa bit out before she could stop herself.

Harry wondered how long she'd kept that bottled up. The words had flown from her mouth with such force, he was sure only years and years of anger and bitterness could have produced it.

Draco took a step backward. "You're lying," he cried, shaking his head.

Narcissa crept forward, meeting Draco step for step. "Oh, how I wish I were, my dragon. I spent years, YEARS, suffering the aftereffects of his mess while trying to keep you safe and happy. Do you know how he died, Draco? Do you really?"

"He was . . . he was saving someone. You told me . . ."

"I know what I told you, but it didn't happen quite that way. You see, your father double-crossed some very, very nasty men who didn't take kindly to his treachery. So, they killed him. And they destroyed us."

Harry felt bile rising in his throat as he watched what was happening. He wanted to do something, anything, but he didn't know what. He took a step forward, the movement unconscious.

"No, I don't believe you. It's not true."

"Ask your godfather then."

"Narcissa," Severus growled.

Draco swung around wildly. His face was pale, his chest was heaving. It broke something in Harry to see his friend so afraid, so unsure. Draco's world had just collapsed and Harry was standing to the side, not wanting to get involved, trying desperately to pretend that it wasn't happening. In that moment, he had a sense of what Narcissa must have felt all those years ago. He took another step forward, and then another.

"Uncle Severus?" Draco asked in a small voice. "It's not true, is it? She's lying. Tell me she's lying."

Severus hesitated for a moment. He swallowed hard. He drew in a deep breath. "You have to understand," Severus began in a soft murmur.

"NO!" Draco heaved, knowing that Severus meant to confirm what Narcissa had said, not refute it.

Harry could stand it no longer. "Stop it! You're hurting him! Just, stop it!" he screamed, as he charged further from his hidden corner. His hands were balled into tight fists. "I'm not worth—just stop it!"

Narcissa swung around, as did Draco. They both stared at Harry.

"Harry, let them sort this out," Severus murmured as he made his way over to Harry and tried to turn him away from the dining room.

"No," Harry snarled as he shook loose of Severus's light hold. "This is because of me. Stop hurting him. Stop lying to him!"

Narcissa sighed and smiled sadly. "I am sorry, but it's true," she murmured in a softer voice. She tried to gather Draco in her arms, but he backed away.

"Why? It's . . . why?" Draco asked, not sure of what he wanted to ask, or say, or do.

"There are too many reasons. It's . . . complicated," Narcissa said. She shot a glance over at Harry. "Do you remember the day before you left for Wolsford, Draco?"

Draco's face colored. "Why would you bring that up?" he hissed.

"There was a man, a very bad man, named Trotter Blackmun. He—he was an associate of your father's. Your father cheated him out of a lot of money and implicated him in a few of his dealings. Blackmun spent time in prison because of it."

"What's that got to do with anything? More tactics to make me find father's behavior more horrible than yours?"

Narcissa grabbed Draco by the upper arm and shook him lightly. She loosened her grip at Harry's sharp intake of breath. "You will listen to me," she growled as she sat Draco in a dining room chair. "You two," she said nodding at Severus and Harry. "Sit down. If we are going to do this, we are at the very least going to be civilized about it."

Harry shuffled towards the table, wary and suspicious. He started to take his place but, at the last moment, scurried around to the other side of the table and sat next to Draco. Severus's pace was far more sedate. He returned to his seat at the head of the table. He raised a brow when Harry moved closer to Draco.

Narcissa smoothed her hair and took another swallow of wine. She sat back and closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "A few months before that day, Trotter Blackmun was released from prison. He began coming to the house, threatening me, taunting me. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to worry you."

Draco sagged, some of his righteous indignation bleeding away. "You should have said something," he growled.

"Perhaps, but what is done is done. The day of Harry's birthday party, I discovered a note from Mr. Blackmun. He'd threatened you and me this time and it was clear that he'd been in the house. He came to the house again the next day, he'd made it sound like he'd kidnapped you and Harry and was planning on doing terrible things. When you disappeared that day . . . Draco, I'd thought I lost you." Narcissa grabbed Draco's hands and held them tight. "I thought I'd lost you," she repeated, tears streaming down her face. "I couldn't bear to lose anyone else."

Harry noticed that Draco was crying too, though he was hiding it rather well.

"Mum," Draco said, remembering how he'd thought he'd lost his mother that night as well. "Mum," he repeated, unable to say much more. Mother and son huddled together over the corner of the dining room table, their heads buried together.

Harry looked down at the tablecloth, his face red from embarrassment. He didn't do well with these kinds of emotional scenes. He brushed his finger back and forth across a discarded dinner napkin, marveling at its softness and the precision of the hand-embroidered edges. He was so focused on the napkin, that he almost missed when Draco and his mum started talking again.

"I was so relieved when you came through that door, when both of you came home," Narcissa added as she reached out to comfort Harry as well.

Startled by the touch, Harry tried to skitter away. He wrapped his arms around himself again and returned to examining the dinner napkin, refusing to acknowledge the look of disappointment and regret on Narcissa's face.

"I was not in the best frame of mind that night. All I could concentrate on was getting you away, getting us away. When I helped Harry in the bath and saw--"

"Please don't," Harry interrupted with a whisper. "Please, it's not important."

"Yes. It is," Narcissa responded before Draco or Severus could. "When I saw all the bruises," she continued, ignoring Harry's gasp, "I knew then that they were hurting you. I finally had the proof I'd wanted for so long and I meant to do something, I did. I just . . . time got away from me," she finished in a soft whisper. "I failed you, Harry. You will never know how much I regret that. Please know I never meant to do that. I meant to—to, well, I meant to do lots of things and I never did. I am so very sorry."

Harry stood. He had to get out of there. He felt as though the walls were closing in. He couldn't breathe. They were all staring at him. Pitying him. He couldn't stand it. He hugged himself and nodded his head in jerky motions. "I understand. I understand," he said. On some level, he really did understand. He'd thought for so long that he'd done something wrong, that she hated him, that he was as dirty and useless as his aunt claimed him to be. Narcissa's admissions put an entirely different spin on things, but it didn't take away the hurt. "I have to go," he blurted as he backed out of the room. "I'm fine," he said, answering unasked questions.

Draco stood. "I'm coming with you."

"Draco, Harry—there is no reason to leave. There's so much more to discuss. There's so much more for me to say, so much more for you to hear," Narcissa pleaded as she stood and walked towards the boys.

Both Harry and Draco stepped backwards.

"I can't. Nothing needs to be said. I—I have to leave," Harry said, tearing out of the room. He heard Draco tear out of the room with him, but Harry didn't turn back.

The front door slammed open and closed. Two sets of feet pounded down the front steps and ran down the elegantly arched drive, down the perfectly straight street, and into the soft, hazy glow of night.

When he could run no further, Harry stopped. He dropped to a crouch and panted through the painful stitches in his side. He felt Draco come to a stop near him. He radiated heat and smelled of expensive cologne and sweat. Harry dropped to a sitting position.

"You okay?" Draco asked, sitting next to him.

Harry nodded. "You?"

Draco shrugged. "I will be, I guess. Whatever doesn't kill you, right?"

Harry snorted. "Something like that," he murmured. He ran his fingers through the soft grass, enjoying the feel of the evening dew and soft tickle of the uncut blades.

They sat there for a long while, each lost to their own thoughts.

"I'm not going home. At least not tonight," Draco said, staring off in the distance.

Harry nodded. "I understand."

"Can I stay with you, then?"

Harry hesitated as his fingers raked through the grass with more force than before. He'd lived through enough revelations for one night. The Dursley house—his joke of a bedroom, the way they locked their doors while away—wasn't something he could bear to share at the moment. But they needed to sleep somewhere. Harry's fingers stilled. There was one place—a place he'd spent many nights, actually. Was he willing to share it, though? He looked up at Draco and saw someone who was a bit older, a bit wearier than he had been before. There was a new sense of circumspection about him. Harry understood the slight crinkle around the eyes, the barest hint of a frown on the lips, and general sense of pensiveness that now surrounded Draco. Yes, he could share this with him. He would understand, Harry thought.

"Come on," Harry said as he got to his feet and held out his hand.

Draco looked up, blinking in confusion. "Where are we going? Are we going to your house?"

"Sort of . . . it's . . . I have to show you, okay?"

Draco nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay."

Harry checked his watch and looked around to get his bearings. He could see the guard gate in the distance. "Come on, we have a bus to catch."

**oOoOoOo**

"So we are going to your house," Draco said as they traipsed down Magnolia Crescent. There were crickets and dogs barking in the distance. The night was alive with the goings-on of other people.

"And I said, not exactly," Harry said.

"Did you see that woman? The one who laid herself down on the bench? She wasn't wearing any shoes. Did you notice? I wonder why she wasn't wearing any shoes. Her socks had ghastly holes in them. Did you notice that her big toe was sticking out?"

Harry sighed. He figured Draco was in some sort of weird shock that made him blabber in a constant stream of consciousness. He'd been doing this since they'd caught the Number 4 Knightbus. First, he'd chattered on and on about the driver who looked near death and blind as a bat. Then, he'd started making comments about the bus patrons, guessing at what they did for a living and why they rode the bus based on their shopping bags and choices in attire. Harry had thought him overly focused on a youngish bloke who was attractive, but looked as though he'd been batted around by life a bit. Draco was quite taken with his scowl and ripped jeans, it seemed.

"Did you notice, Harry? The toe? The great big toe?" Draco asked again.

"No, Draco. I didn't. I didn't notice the toe," Harry said.

Draco didn't respond right away. Harry hoped that he'd hit an end to his talking jag. He was mistaken, of course. "How could you miss the toe?" Draco asked after they'd passed several houses in silence.

Harry rolled his eyes. "You haven't changed a bit," he said under his breath.

Draco stopped them. "What's that supposed to mean?" he said, sticking out his jaw in a way meant to be indignant.

"I mean you still have adventures, still make up stories, that sort of thing. It's nice. I've—I've missed it, I suppose."

Draco's face softened. "I suppose I can live with that," he said with an upper crust lilt to his voice. They walked past a few more houses before Draco stopped again. "I can't believe you missed the toe," he said with a soft laugh.

Harry shook his head. "Let's go. I don't fancy standing in the middle of the road all night."

Draco sobered a bit. "Yeah. It's not like I can go home or anything."

"Yes, you can actually. You're choosing not to. There's a difference."

Draco sniffed. "Semantics."

Harry rolled his eyes. "We're almost there," he said, the Dursleys' house coming into view.

"So we are going to your house," Draco said again.

"And I told you, not exactly," Harry snapped.

They trudged across the Dursleys' lawn and around the back of the house. Harry ducked into the small garage after fiddling with the locked door for a few minutes.

"What are you doing?" Draco whispered, feeling a bit like a burglar.

"Getting supplies," Harry said, his voice muffled. A few moments later he returned with soft, squashy sleepsacks, torches and an old oil lantern. The soft flames were already dancing, casting a golden glow across Harry. "Here," he said, handing Draco a sleepsack and a torch. "You'll want to turn that on—the ground can be a bit slippery."

"Where are we going?"

Harry turned and flashed a brilliant smile. Draco's breath caught in his throat at the sight. "Were going on an adventure."

A lazy smile curled across Draco's face. "An adventure, you say? Are we treasure seekers?" he teased.

"Nope. Gypsy kings traveling across the land," Harry said with a laugh. "Come on, it's not far," he said, slipping into the night.

Draco turned on his torch and followed.

It wasn't a far walk into the back garden, but each step left Harry feeling a bit more nervous. He'd never shared his special garden with anyone. He was afraid that Draco might laugh or sneer or, worse still, fail to see its beauty. It was very important to Harry that Draco understand why the little sliver of Eden was so important to him, though he didn't know why. He stopped a few steps ahead of the copse of trees hiding his shady enclave. The breeze picked up, carrying the pungent scent of night-blooming jasmine with it. Harry heard a loud sniff behind him. He held his breath.

"What smells so good?" Draco asked, sniffing the night air again.

Harry relaxed and started walking again. "Night blooming jasmine," he murmured.

"Does it only bloom at night?"

"Um, sort of," Harry answered. "It releases its scent at night."

"Strange."

"Not really. Lots of plants only bloom or scent at night."

Draco snorted. "I shouldn't have doubted you." He sniffed again. "It's getting stronger."

Harry nodded and ducked behind the trees hiding his garden. "This is what I wanted to show you," he said, stepping into the small space. He placed the lantern in the middle and stood off to the side.

Draco entered. He missed the anxious look on Harry's face, enticed by the intoxicating smells and the sight of voluptuous blossoms undulating in the night breeze. It was like he'd entered another world. He'd never seen anything like it. "Bloody hell," he swore under his breath as he dropped his sleepsack and torch. He walked around, stopping here and there to ghost his fingers across a fat, sprawling blossom or trace the line of a hand-made trellis fashioned of copper wire, bits of wood, and other odds and bobs. He looked up at the sound of gentle chimes tinkling in the trees. The fullness of the moon and the astonishing brightness of the stars were arresting. "What is this place?" he eventually asked.

Harry shrugged. "Just a little garden I made. The Dursleys never come out this far and I—I wanted something that was just mine," he whispered.

"It's like another world. It's amazing, Harry." Draco couldn't be sure, but he thought Harry had blushed at that.

"It's just a little garden. It's a bit shabby, I know, just a lot of odds and ends and things. It's not like a real garden or anything," Harry said, turning and unrolling his sleepsack. He sat down and stared at his hands while Draco continued to examine the small space.

"It's perfect. It's like we really are gypsy kings," Draco whispered.

Harry nodded, never happier to indulge a bit of playacting. Anything to help them forget their awful day would be welcome.

Draco whirled around and stared at Harry, an odd intensity lighting his eyes. "We've just come from rescuing a beautiful princess from blood-thirsty savages. Upon arriving home, we discover that our families have been torn apart by an evil dark lord. We vow vengeance on him and we rode out at dawn, determined to find him." Draco looked at Harry expectantly, willing him to play along.

"Er, yes," Harry started, struggling with what to say as Draco unrolled his sleepsack and sat down. "We . . . we rode out at dawn, as you said, and, erm, we—we encountered a massive talking snake that tried to trick us into giving her our, our . . . um, our cloaks," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders in feeble apology.

Draco didn't seem to mind. He hunched closer. "We fought her bravely. 'No!' you screamed, refusing to give her quarter. 'I'll slay you, you evil beast,' you told her as you lunged forward, sinking your sword into her."

"She writhed in pain, screaming—no hissing—for her beloved master, er . . . Volde—Voldemort," Harry said, struggling to remember his French etymological roots.

"Flight from death," Draco murmured. "I like it. Go on, then," he said, prodding Harry in the side.

"She writhed and flipped and managed to land on top of me."

"And I jumped on top of her, prising her jaws away from your throat, her fangs ready to deliver death."

"And I pushed the sword in deeper, twisting it. She cried and jerked and fell dead."

"Yes, but not before we discovered she was a magical snake, that her master had left a part of his soul inside of her."

Harry made a face. "Left a part of his soul inside of her? Isn't that a bit far-fetched?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't you think we passed far-fetched with the talking snake bit?" he asked, arching one of his brows.

Harry laughed. "Yeah I suppose. Go on, then. Tell us about the bit of the soul of her master."

Draco bit his lip, "Yeah, okay. Um, first we need a spell or something, something that would destroy the soul bit. A killing curse of some sort."

"Hmm . . . Abracadabra?" Harry asked with a laugh.

"Prat," Draco said. "That gives me an idea though. Something that sounds like it, maybe. Abra . . abra . . . abra," Draco repeated over and over, willing another word to come to him.

Harry joined in. "Abra . . . abra . . . avabra . . . avadra . . . avada . . . avada cadabra?"

Draco perked at that. "Avada cadabra. No, that doesn't . . . hey, what about avada kedavra?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. Brilliant! Go on, then."

"Where was I? Oh yes, the magical snake had her fangs centimeters from your throat, ready to petrify you with her venom. So, I prised her jaws open and wrestled her away why you twisted the sword deeper. She let's out an unearthly screech and this oozing green mist escapes from her throat in the shape of a—a—"

"Skull with a snake coming out of its mouth!" Harry blurted.

"Yes! Exactly! A green mist escapes in the shape of a skull with a snake coming out of her mouth. It's Voldemort!"

"We jump to our feet," Harry said, his eyes shining with mirth and excitement. "We prepare to incant the killing curse."

"We grasp hands, palm to palm," Draco said, grasping Harry's hands and staring into his eyes. "Together, we stand as gypsy kings; together, we stand as kin; together, we protect the world and we slay the demons."

Harry found himself saying the words with Draco, their gazes locked. They grasped their hands tighter and shot them up to the night sky, shouting together, "Avada Kedavra!" before collapsing on their backs and dissolving into howls of laughter and chants of, "Long live the kings of the gypsies, the boys who lived!"

The fell into a comfortable silence punctuated by short bursts of laughter. Draco rolled to his side and faced Harry. Harry looked up at him. "Thank you," Draco murmured. "I needed that, I think."

Harry smiled. "Me too. Sometimes it's nice to pretend."

"You don't have to pretend with me, you know. You don't have to pretend that it doesn't hurt, or that you're okay."

Harry nodded and looked down at the soft grass. "You too. You don't have to pretend, either."

Draco rolled onto his back. He lifted his hands and framed a small constellation. "I can't believe I have to go back to school in five weeks. We'll have to write and visit. I really want us to stay friends, you know?"

Harry's fingers ran through the grass. He wanted that too. "Yeah, I know what you mean," he said, knowing that the next time he picked up the pen laying on the Dursleys' dining table, there would be no hesitation. He drew in a deep breath. "Your godfather is helping me apply to Wolsford."

Draco gasped and sat up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. He thinks I'd like it there," Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant, though his hands were shaking and his heart was thumping. "There are scholarships and things. There's no guarantee, of course." Harry looked up and was startled to see Draco's expression. He looked as though he wanted to leap across the small space separating them and smother Harry with a hug or something.

"So, you're applying?"

Harry hesitated. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Draco smiled, the strength of it brighter than the moon. "Brilliant," he said in a rush of breath. He lay back down. "Bloody brilliant."

Harry lay down as well, forgetting to keep the smile from his face.

They lay there, long into the night, hypnotized by the softly swaying vines, the fragrance of fat, sprawling blossoms, and the sound of delicate chimes. The grass was soft beneath them and the night sky cast her net of stars like strings of fairy lights. The trees surrounding them made the posts for their Bedouin tent, and the sky their gauzy ceiling. For a little while, they could revel in the excitement and promise of opportunity, of chance; they could forget the hurt and the pain and sorrow; and they could be gypsy kings—comrades, brothers, kin—roaming the lands together once more.


	15. A Bit of Parchment

**Chapter 15: A Bit of Parchment**

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**Once again, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and her wonderful cheerleading.

Harry woke. He kept his eyes closed, allowing his senses to unfurl at a slow pace. The morning was cool, making the soft warmth surrounding him all the more inviting. A sparrow chirped as she hopped from branch to branch in a nearby tree. Harry could hear her as she darted back and forth. A faint breeze rustled the grass and tickled his nose. It carried with it the scent of his jasmine and four-o'clocks. The small wind chimes tinkled in the breeze.

His mind drifted to all that had happened the night before. Harry had expected to feel a lingering sense of unease and distress. He didn't. If anything, he felt . . . clean, free. He'd made a decision about Wolsford. He understood Mrs. Malfoy more, now. He'd taken a chance renewing his friendship with Draco and had found someone who was more of a kindred spirit than he'd ever imagined. Best of all, the Dursleys were still away. They couldn't spoil this perfect moment. Nothing could spoil it.

When he could no longer avoid waking fully, Harry groped for his glasses and slipped them on, all with his eyes still closed. He opened his eyes. It was like seeing the world for the first time.

A fine sheen of dew covered the earth, making everything sparkle as if kissed with glass glitter. The sky was blue and the grass green and the flowers more brightly colored than Harry remembered them being. It was like the world had been washed and scrubbed clean.

The breeze kicked up again. Draco shifted in his sleep. Harry's gaze darted to him. The sunlight, the dew, something—Harry wasn't sure—made Draco's platinum hair seem as if it were lit by the sun itself. His skin was as creamy as the small jasmine blossoms retiring for the day. Harry continued to stare, realizing with a start that Draco was fascinating. An odd feeling squirmed in his stomach as he catalogued the fine contours of Draco's face, the graceful lift to his brow, the hint of flush on his cheek. Strong and, yet, ethereal, Draco was like the Chinese orchids Harry had found so fascinating the previous year. His hand moved of its own accord and touched Draco. The feeling in his stomach intensified. Harry snapped his hand back. The feeling in his stomach wasn't unpleasant necessarily, just . . . odd. He shifted and flexed his knees and ankles in an effort to dislodge the squirming sensation. It wouldn't go away. He didn't understand it—this odd feeling that felt, at once, like longing and also like heat. He decided that it was little more than covetous envy. He, with his unruly mop of black hair, scruffy appearance, and short stature was no match for Draco. He stared for a long time.

Draco stirred. He blew out a breath, which made his pale hair flutter. He rolled over and licked his lips. Harry knew that, at any moment, Draco would wake fully. He continued staring until Draco's eyes opened. As Draco's gaze sharpened, Harry said, "Good morning," while cutting his eyes to the side, hoping that Draco had not caught him staring.

"Morning," Draco said with a yawn as he snuggled for a moment in the warmth of the sleeping bag. "What time is it?" he murmured as he flopped onto his back and folded his arms beneath his head.

Harry looked up at the sun. "Around eight, I reckon."

Draco made a noncommittal sound in response.

Harry bit his lip. He felt awkward and wished that the feeling in his stomach would go away. "We should head back. Your mum's probably worried and I have to talk to Mr. Snape."

Draco rolled back over and pinned Harry with his gaze. There was nothing dull or sleepy about it. Harry's stomach flipped over and lurched. "About the application? To Wolsford?"

"Yeah. I need to take it to him," Harry said, hoping he'd kept the tremor from his voice. What was wrong with him? He berated himself for acting so silly.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Draco asked, as he scrambled out of the sleeping bag.

Harry snorted at his antics before turning serious. "I might not get in, you know."

Draco paused. "You will," he said after some time.

"How can you be so sure?"

Draco shrugged. "I just am."

Harry found comfort in that, though he couldn't say why. "I just have to go inside and get it."

Draco stood and tried to smooth his wrinkled trousers. "Bring a change of clothes. We can shower and stuff at my house." He fished in his pockets and pulled out his small mobile. "I'll call Uncle Severus and ask him to drive over."

Harry nodded as he bundled the sleeping bags and grabbed the other things they'd brought out with them. "I'll meet you out front."

"I was hoping to come in, you know," Draco said with a short laugh. "To use the loo," he clarified.

Harry hesitated. "Erm, sure," he said. "Meet you at the back, then. Just have to put these things away."

Harry took his time putting everything away in the garage. "Stop being so stupid," he said to himself. So what if Draco wanted to come into the house? "Because he knows, now," Harry whispered. He shook his head. "Right. Time to get this over with," he said as he left the garage and let Draco into the Dursleys' house.

"The loo's up the stairs and to the right," Harry said as he went to the kitchen table.

"I remember," Draco said as he wandered through the house, staring at everything as if seeing it for the first time. He was, in a way. Odd things he tossed away before now had much darker meanings. "I'll be right down."

Harry waited until he heard the last stair creak before he turned his attention to the Wolsford application. It was still turned to the signature page. He picked up the pen. Before he could change his mind, he signed it.

His hands shook as he slipped the application and all of the attachments into the envelope Mr. Snape had given him. He sealed it. It was done now. No going back. He squashed daydreams about afternoon tea with his yearmates while wearing a crisp, black uniform, riding a beautiful black and brown thoroughbred, and never having to see the Dursleys again. He would not think about that. Not yet.

Harry gathered up all of the papers and things from the table and threw them out with the other rubbish. Draco hadn't returned yet. Harry knew why. His room was next to the loo. Draco would be curious. It was unavoidable.

Harry tidied up a few more things in an effort to avoid going up. He glanced at the clock. Mr. Snape would be there soon. With a sigh, he trudged up the stairs to his room. As he expected, Draco was there, standing with his back to the doorway.

"Mr. Snape will be here soon," Harry said.

Draco's shoulders tensed. It was the only indication that he'd heard Harry.

Harry stood there, wondering what Draco was going to do. He was about to repeat himself when Draco started talking.

"You aren't really afraid of windows, are you," Draco said, still facing away from Harry.

Harry swallowed. "No."

Draco inhaled sharply and hung his head. He nodded to himself. Harry waited.

"You didn't pick this room."

"No."

"Were you really sick all those times?"

Harry's throat closed. He licked his lips. He closed his eyes. "No," he whispered.

Draco's fingers ghosted over the worn coverlet on the small bed. "Do you hate them? I would. I do."

Harry hesitated. "Yes," he said, hating that he let the Dursleys get to him so.

Draco nodded again. "And Mum. Do you hate her as well? I wouldn't blame . . . I'd understand," he said as his fingers clutched at the shabby cloth.

"I—I did," Harry began slowly. "I don't . . . . Not anymore. I don't hate her anymore. I don't know that I ever really hated her."

Harry thought Draco might say something about that. He didn't. Instead, he turned and faced Harry, pinning him with his gaze, studying him. He tried to smile. It was tight and nervous. "Good thing about the windows. The dorms are full of them. I couldn't think how to explain _that_ to our suitemates."

Harry smiled back, his just as tight and uncertain. Avoidance was familiar and felt as warm and comfortable as his sleeping bag had that morning. Draco shared the sentiment, it seemed. "You seem awfully confident that I'll both get into Wolsford and live with you. Awfully cheeky, don't you think?"

Draco smiled again. This time it was genuine. "I'm a Malfoy. I've a right to be cheeky. And you will get in and you will live with me. Uncle Severus will see to it," Draco said with a sniff.

Harry laughed. "Still dragging me around, are you?" he asked with an arched brow. "I thought we'd sorted that out years ago."

"As if I could make you do anything," Draco said, while visions of small, shaggy lions popped into his head. Draco studied Harry. Yes. Harry was still his boy, his little lion, and he'd be damned if he'd miss something so important about him again.

"Draco?" Harry asked, puzzled by Draco's behavior. Draco smiled, though, now, it was flat and a little sad, Harry thought.

"Come on. Uncle Severus is probably waiting."

Severus looked at the boys and their rumpled clothing. He shook his head. "You look as though you've slept outside like wild ruffians. Get in the car before someone sees you."

Draco and Harry traded conspiratorial glances. Draco mouthed "Voldemort," while casting a glance at his godfather. Harry laughed, sobering at Severus's sharp glance.

"I don't recall saying anything humorous, Mr. Potter."

"Erm, no sir."

"Then what is it?"

"I, uh--" Harry hesitated before withdrawing the application envelope from his knapsack. Better to go ahead and give it to him now. "I wanted to give this to you straight away."

Severus's eyes roved over the thick packet. His gaze shot to Draco before settling on Harry.

"He knows," Harry murmured.

Severus's lips quirked. Harry thought it might—_might_—have been a smile. One could never tell with Mr. Snape. "I'll see that this reaches the headmaster this afternoon. Well done, Mr. Potter."

Harry blushed and ducked his head. His stomach felt jumbled and squirmy, though it was a decidedly different feeling than he'd experienced earlier in the day. He nodded.

Draco slung his arm across Harry's shoulder, ignoring his gasp of surprise. "No worries, Harry. Uncle Severus will make everything right."

Severus studied Draco. "I'm glad to see your opinion of me has changed over the course of the night. I expected you to be more upset."

Pain flooded Draco as he remembered what he'd learned the night before. It had been so much easier to focus on Harry. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He withdrew his arm and stepped away. "I _am_ still upset with you," he mumbled. "But if you can help Harry, then . . . then . . . look, just help him, okay?"

Severus nodded. "Very well," he said, before ushering the boys into the car. Draco entered first, sitting stiffly in the front seat.

Harry held Severus's gaze for a bit longer. "Thank you," Harry said with some effort before looking away and getting into the back.

Severus closed his eyes and exhaled. He had a feeling that his well-ordered life was about to be turned upside down. Somehow, though, it wasn't an altogether unpleasant thought.

"Has anything come in the mail yet?" Draco asked as he followed Harry around the nursery.

"No. I told you I would tell you when something came. I've told you that for days now, but you insist on asking every day, don't you?" Harry growled.

Draco picked at lint on his jumper. "It's just that school will be starting back in just over a month. I just thought you would have heard by now, is all."

Harry threw down his gloves and turned around. "I've often wondered, do you take classes on how to say the worst thing possible at the worst possible moment, or does it come naturally to you?"

Draco laughed at Harry's moue of exasperation. "Naturally, of course," he teased. "Come off it, you prat. I'm sure you've gotten in. It's just a matter of confirmation at this point."

Harry rubbed his forehead. He hated this aching hope that had somehow settled into his bones. It, along with Draco's constant chattering, was giving him a headache. "How is everything with your Mum?" Harry asked, knowing that would send Draco scurrying away. As predicted, Draco's mouth set in a firm line, he kicked at the gravel path, and mumbled something about not wanting to talk about it. It bought Harry a minute's respite.

"Hey, do you know what today is?" Draco asked a few minutes later.

"Wednesday."

"You know what I mean."

"No, apparently I don't. You asked what day it was. It's Wednesday. I wasn't aware of a hidden meaning."

"You've been spending too much time with Uncle Severus."

Harry snorted.

"I mean, the calendar day, Harry."

Harry opened his mouth to make a sarcastic retort, but shut it when he realized it was the thirty-first of July. He turned back to watering the bright rows of annuals. "Don't," he said in warning.

Draco's shoulders slumped. "Why can't we--"

"I told you. No."

"But--"

"No. No party. No presents. No fuss. Just . . . no."

"You're a right git, you know that, don't you?"

Harry smiled. "So you've said. Many times."

Draco smiled too. He couldn't help it. Besides, he had something else to smile about. "Fine. No parties, or anything, but we have to celebrate, Harry. You're fifteen! That's like . . . like . . . well, it's important, that's what. Let's go back to your garden, yeah? Tonight. I'll come over around eleven."

Harry's gaze narrowed. "What are you playing at?"

Draco held out his hands in surrender. "Nothing. You've made it perfectly clear that you don't want a fuss, or a party, or presents. Though," he said with a sly glance, "you never said anything about chocolate cake. From Woodberry's, of course."

Harry stiffened. He loved the chocolate cake from Woodberry's. He'd even had a few pleasant dreams about that chocolate cake. "That's really, really low," he growled, even as he licked his lips in anticipation.

"Yes, it is," Draco said brightly. "See you tonight," he said before he skipped off to find Severus.

"Draco Malfoy, you're going to be the death of me," Harry muttered to himself before returning to his work, trying very, very hard not to think about chocolate cake from Woodberry's.

Harry was exhausted. He'd spent the entire afternoon moving a section of the nursery to a new location. He wanted to kick Mr. Snape for pointing out that Mr. Wells would do better to have his shade ornamentals on the other side of the nursery.

Harry shucked his dirty trainers at the Dursleys' back door and wiped his feet as best he could. He didn't know why he took such care. It wasn't as if there would be anyone to greet him, or scold him, or acknowledge his existence in any form. An empty, still house greeted him.

Harry sat in the kitchen and drank a glass of water as he thought through what he needed to do in preparation for the Dursleys' return. They were due back the next day—Uncle Vernon had finally used up his vacation leave and Dudley would be leaving for school in two weeks time. Lovely. Thankfully, there wasn't much to do. Harry had kept up with his chores all along. He snorted. It didn't matter anyway. Vernon and Petunia would find something to criticize, something to prove, once again, how worthless and useless Harry was.

He drummed his fingers on the table, enjoying the last few moments of silence he'd get for a long while. He thought about Draco and chocolate cake and the garden. His stomach lurched a bit like it had that morning they'd woken up together. He squirmed in his seat for a few seconds before getting up and walking around the kitchen. He stopped at the door to the basement. He could still see them—the faint lines marking Dudley's height as he'd grown through the years. He stared at them a long while, pretending not to care, pretending that he didn't desperately wish that there were another set of marks next to Dudley's. He resisted the urge to stand straight and thrust his back against the wall so that he could measure himself against those lines. He shook his head. What was the point? He'd spent his life trying to measure up to the Dursleys and had never succeeded. He hoped he wouldn't have to try much longer. Harry's throat grew tight as he stared at the lines. He finally turned away and drank another glass of water.

When the last of the sun's rays slipped away, Harry got up from the table and shuffled to the hall, intent on showering before doing any last minute tidying. He passed the post on the way. Sighing, he bent over to gather it up and sort it according to Uncle Vernon's specific instructions. Something caught his eye. There was a large, thick envelope on the floor, covered with elegant script. The envelope was addressed to him. Harry's breath caught in his throat. Trembling fingers trailed over his name before they turned over the envelope. Bright blue wax emblazoned with Wolsford's crest sealed the back flap. Harry stopped breathing.

He snatched up the envelope and held it close to his chest. His heart was thumping and he felt a bit lightheaded. His future was in that envelope. Feeling a bit dazed, he sat heavily on the bottom stair and let the envelope rest in his lap. He stared at it for a long while—much like he had at the faint marks on the wall in the kitchen. A dog barked in the distance, breaking Harry's daze. He bit his lip and turned over the envelope and ripped it open.

If anything, that simple act increased the horrible thumping in his chest, the wheezing in his lungs, the dizziness in his head. "Stop being such a coward," Harry snarled to himself, startled by how loud his voice sounded in the still house. With a snort, he withdrew the papers and began reading.

"Mr. Potter," he murmured as he read along, "On behalf of the Wolsford Academic Board, we are pleased--" Harry had to stop. His eyes began to water. He closed them. He forced back the emotion lodged thick in his throat. After a few moments he opened his eyes and began reading again. ". . . we are pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to Wolsford Academy. Further, we are pleased to announce that you have received a full academic scholarship."

The letter went on about the traditional start of term picnic, as well as required physicals, medical records, uniform standards and fittings, and all sorts of other things. Harry's hand dropped. The letter fluttered to the stair. He started laughing. It began as silent snickers at the thought of Harry Potter, young gentleman. The idea of him in a crisp, black uniform while drinking tea and nibbling cucumber sandwiches sent him into fits of bone cracking guffaws. The idea of moving far, far away from the Dursleys and having a new life—his own life—turned his hysterical laughter into heart wrenching sobs. He collapsed against the stairs and curled his hands into fists. He beat them against the stairs as he turned his head away. His body heaved with the effort of keeping his cries silent. Harry didn't know why he was crying, only that his tears were ruining a perfectly lovely bit of parchment—a bit of parchment that had changed his life forever.

Draco didn't know what to make of the boy standing on his porch. Harry had arrived, unexpectedly, a few moments prior, looking tired and out of sorts. His hair was wilder than ever and his eyes were puffy and red. He sniffed every few seconds as if recovering from a cold. Draco thought the worst.

"What's happened? What have they done?" Draco asked as he pulled Harry inside and tried to check for injury. "I thought you said they weren't coming home until tomorrow?"

Harry shook him off and, rather than say anything, he thrust a creased and tear-stained envelope into Draco's hands.

Draco recognized the envelope immediately. It was from Wolsford. He looked up at Harry, again taking in his bewildered expression and his puffy, red eyes. "_Impossible_!" Draco thought to himself. "_There's no way Harry didn't get in_." Dread curled in his stomach as he turned the letter over and over.

"Go on, read it," Harry croaked, pushing the envelope further into Draco's hands.

Draco frowned as he withdrew the letter, not sure of what he was going to say to comfort Harry. He scanned the letter, looking for a reason for why Harry hadn't been admitted. He noticed the words "congratulations" and "welcome." He looked up sharply at Harry before he started reading the letter from the top.

"You got in," Draco said after he'd finished the letter.

Harry nodded, his expression still odd.

Draco read the letter again. Perhaps he'd missed something. You got in," he repeated. "Scholarship, stipend, everything. Harry, you got in."

"I know," Harry mumbled, staring in the distance. "I—I can't believe it."

"You got in!" Draco exclaimed as he rushed forward and hugged Harry hard, ignoring his gasp of surprise.

"Mum!" Draco bellowed as he let go. "Mum! Uncle Severus," Draco called as he ran from room to room, flapping the letter.

"What is all this racket?" Severus growled as he stomped into the room. He took a look at Harry and rushed to his side. "What's happened? Have they hurt you? Draco said they were not returning until tomorrow. Did they come home early?" he asked, as his good sense flew away and something decidedly more fatherly took over.

Harry shook his head, his eyes tracking Draco's darting form. "No, sir," he murmured.

"Then what's happened?" Severus barked, regaining his scowl and mantel of indifference.

Harry looked up at Severus. He smiled. "I got in."

"You got in."

"Yes, I got in. I—well, I can't believe it, actually."

"Nonsense," Severus said, while Draco continued to fly through the house, flapping the letter, and calling for his mother. "Of course you got in."

Harry blushed and looked down at his worn trainers. "Where's Mrs. Malfoy?" Harry asked, in hopes of changing the subject.

"She's not home," Severus said. "She's gone to pick up your cake from Woodberry's. Perhaps we should all enjoy it here? A celebration of sorts?"

Harry looked away. After a time, he nodded. "I'd like that. Thank you." He looked around. "I suppose I should tell Draco that he can stop bellowing now," he said with a small laugh.

"Yes, that might be in order. I haven't seen him so animated since the time the two of you found pirate treasure buried in his back yard."

Harry didn't say anything.

"Did anything else come with the letter, Harry?"

"Oh. Erm. Yes, sir," Harry said as he looked around for wherever Draco had dropped the rest of the papers. "Here they are," he said as he handed them to Mr. Snape.

Severus looked them over quickly, clucking his tongue as he got to the small packet that required Harry's guardian's signature—including the original application. "Have you looked through everything, Harry?"

Harry nodded. "They won't sign," he said with a certain amount of belligerence. "They won't want me to have this."

"Perhaps not, but they will sign. Tomorrow we'll speak to your relatives about everything." Severus hesitated. "Have you much to pack? Perhaps it would be best if you stayed with Draco and Narcissa until the start of term."

Harry nodded, the flush creeping back into his face. "I can take care of myself, you know," he said with a pathetic, wounded sneer.

"Oh, I know," Severus said with exaggerated awe in his voice. "Don't think for a moment that I worry about your welfare. Why, I'm simply worried for the Dursleys."

Harry snickered and turned away, intent on finding Draco. Mr. Snape's hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned, his brow quirked in question.

"Well done, Harry," Severus said with a soft voice and a gentle squeeze of his hand before he turned away.

"Stop digging your fingers into the seat. You're marring my upholstery," Severus admonished.

Harry withdrew his hands from the seat and folded them in his lap. "Sorry, sir," he mumbled as he stared out the passenger side window of Severus's car.

"There is nothing to be nervous about," Severus said after a few minutes of tense silence. "I told you I would handle this, and I will."

Harry nodded his head, but said nothing. He bit the inside of his cheek. He was dreading this. He'd been in a daze the evening before when Severus had first suggested it. He'd been plied with too much chocolate cake and fizzy soda to protest later. And that morning, Mr. Snape hadn't given him a chance to complain or make excuses as he'd hauled him out of bed, sent him to the shower and dragged a comb through his hair himself before tugging him into the car. Harry was sure the Dursleys would refuse to sign. His only hope was that Mr. Snape would convince them.

"Will the duffle be sufficient for your things?" Severus asked.

"Sorry?" Harry asked, still thinking about being trapped for the rest of his life with the Dursleys.

"The duffle for your things? Packing? Honestly, are you even listening to me?" Severus snapped.

Harry rubbed his forehead. "Sorry, sir. I'm just . . . erm, yes the duffle will be fine. Not much to pack, really. Just a few clothes, books, not much at all, really." Harry finished under his breath.

Severus nodded as if he'd expected as much. "Narcissa informs me that your uniform fitting is scheduled for next week. We'll get the other things you need then. The climate in Wolsford can be a bit different than Surrey. You'll need some new things, I suspect."

Harry nodded and looked down at his folded hands. He could see his worn trainers. He shuffled his feet over in an attempt to hide them. He knew Mr. Snape was trying to be as respectful as he could. The climate at Wolsford was not that different than Surrey, but Harry knew the things he owned would never measure up to what the other boys wore. He wasn't so naïve as to think that something as trivial as his wardrobe wouldn't matter. A whole new kind of panic surged. He would never fit in at Wolsford. What in the hell had he been thinking? The other boys would spot straight away that he wasn't like them, that he hadn't been raised in their world. Harry sighed. It felt like that no matter where he lived, he didn't fit in. He wondered if he'd ever belong anywhere. No matter, though. Anywhere was better than the Dursleys' house.

"We're here," Severus said, startling Harry from his thoughts.

Harry sat in his seat and stared blankly at the house for a few minutes. "Well. I suppose we should go in," he said as if he were preparing to face death by firing squad. He sighed and ran an errant hand through his hair, ignoring Severus's hiss as his hair stuck up in various directions. He made to get out of the car when Severus stopped him.

"I've been meaning to ask you what you wrote your essay about. The headmaster mentioned to me last night that it was one of the main reasons you were admitted."

Harry sunk back into the seat. He clasped his hands and looked down, trying to work out the best way to say what he wanted. "I wrote about trees," he began.

Severus stilled as Harry looked up. His gaze seemed unnaturally bright and serious.

"I wrote about caring for trees," Harry said before pausing. "I wrote about how someone told me once that his favorite trees were the damaged ones, that with attention and care, even the worst of them can grow and become beautiful." Harry looked down.

There was an uncomfortable squeezing in Severus's throat. He dismissed it as too much chocolate cake the night before. "I see," he whispered, filed with warmth he couldn't define at the thought that Harry had remembered his words and had taken them to heart. "Very sound advice, I think."

Harry looked up. "I hope so, sir," he murmured, before getting out of the car and waiting for Severus.

Severus resisted the urge to ruffle the boy's already wild hair, or, worse still, hug him. He really couldn't deny the affection he felt for Harry, but he refused to be like those mollycoddling parents who hugged and cooed over their children. Instead, he would show his affection in far more practical ways, the first being convincing the Dursleys to let Harry go away to school. Still, he couldn't stop himself from squeezing Harry's shoulder. "No use putting it off any longer."

Harry nodded and led the way to the door.

Dudley Dursley greeted them. His disdainful eyes shot to Harry first before roving over Severus, not recognizing him. He took in the fine details of Severus's clothing—expensive, obviously—as well as his scowl. Dudley smiled with glee, assuming Harry was in trouble with Severus. Dudley stuck out his hand. "Dudley Dursley, sir," he said with his most affected tone. "Let me be the first to apologize for whatever Harry here has done. He's my cousin, you see, but he's distantly related," Dudley hastened to add. "He's always getting into trouble, no matter what we do. Shall I get my parents so that you discuss the matter with them?"

Severus's eyes narrowed as he drew himself up taller. He leaned over and glared at Dudley as if he were a systemic fungal infection attacking one of his prized orchids.

Dudley cringed. "I'll just get my parents then," he stuttered while he backed away and ran towards the kitchen.

Vague shouts of "Mum," and "Dad," were heard in the distance as Severus turned to Harry. "How unfortunate for you to have to claim relative status to that beast. Ghastly manners. Did you tell me he boards? How disappointing for you that you're not attending that fine institution of learning," Severus said with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

Harry snorted. He couldn't help it. He grinned, thanking Mr. Snape silently for breaking the tension. The break was short lived.

"What's this?" Vernon Dursley asked as he lumbered through the hall. Petunia trailed after him. Harry knew the moment that Vernon recognized Severus. He seemed caught between sneering at anyone who would take up for Harry and wanting to charm someone of Severus's ilk. In the end, he settled for something in the middle. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Snape?" Vernon asked through clenched teeth as his glare darted to Harry.

"I've come to talk with you about Harry's schooling," Severus said.

"What about it?" Vernon snapped. Vernon turned to Harry.

"Mr. Potter has been accepted to a very prestigious school. We need to have a chat about exactly how that's going to work."

Vernon went purple and then red and then stark white. The color change was rather fascinating, Harry thought. "What have you done, boy?" Vernon hissed, truly angry. His hand reached out, unconsciously, and snaked towards Harry, attempting to grab him by the front of his shirt.

Severus pushed Harry behind him. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Severus growled, continuing to press Harry behind him, even as he struggled to peek around Severus's shoulder.

Vernon paled to an impossibly grim shade of white. "How dare you!"

"No. How dare you," Severus began. "Could you be any less of a malformed cretin? Forcing us to linger on your tatty little porch while we discuss your nephew's future like common vagabonds? And here I thought that, if nothing else, you at least pretended to be polite," Severus said, ignoring Vernon's grumbling.

"For goodness sake, Vernon, invite them in! They'll make a scene, otherwise," Petunia hissed as she glanced around making sure none of the neighbors were watching.

Vernon growled and puffed up his chest as if he meant to protest. Petunia's fingers dug cruelly into his shoulders as she hissed at him again. He sagged in defeat and stepped aside. "This is all to do with you, isn't it boy? Nothing but trouble, you are," he said as he made another attempt to grab Harry as he walked by. Harry twisted and skittered away.

Severus turned at the commotion and faced Vernon with such venom, that Vernon shrunk back and shuffled backward until he bumped into the wall. Severus advanced. "Do not touch him," Severus said, punctuating each word with a step closer to Vernon.

"I meant no offense," Vernon blubbered.

Severus's smile was grotesque. "Of course not, Mr. Dursley. Just as you meant no offense every other time you've manhandled him. You only meant to hurt him then, didn't you? But you never meant any offense." Severus's voice grew harsher with each word. Unfocused rage boiled within him. How dare Vernon Dursley treat Harry with so little regard? Harry was worth ten thousand Vernon Dursleys.

"Mr. Snape. Please! Don't," Harry said, his hand clutching at Severus's elbow.

Severus started. He turned. Harry's face was ashen and his eyes were wide and pleading. Severus got hold of himself. Giving into his rage was not the best way to help Harry—not now, anyway. He smoothed the front of his trousers and brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder. "We have matters to discuss," he said with a sniff, before turning and leading everyone to the living room, as if he lived there instead of the Dursleys.

Vernon and Petunia sat on the couch while Severus took a seat in a small armchair. Harry hovered, hesitating. A sharp glance from Severus had him scurrying to sit in the other small armchair. Vernon and Petunia exchanged a glance. Vernon looked as though he might protest Harry sitting on the good furniture, but the sharp pain from Petunia's fingernails digging into his forearm squashed any objection he might make.

"What's this about?" Vernon asked gruffly.

Severus withdrew a packet of papers from his breast pocket and slid them across the small coffee table. "Harry will be attending Wolsford Academy for the remainder of his schooling, including his A Levels. He's received a full academic scholarship and his summers will be spent either with me at the school in an apprenticeship program or studying abroad, which will likewise be covered by his scholarship. It's all been arranged. All you need to do is sign these papers where indicated and you'll never have to see Harry again." Severus withdrew a pen and slid it across the table as well. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Vernon seemed caught between pleasure of getting rid of Harry and the pain of giving Harry something he wanted. He finally settled on depriving Harry of as much as he possibly could. "Why should I? That little brat has been nothing but trouble since he came to us. He's finally earning his keep. Why should I give that up? What's in it for me?" Vernon asked with a piggish squint.

Snape's knuckles turned white with the force required to keep him in his seat. "Harry, go upstairs and pack your things," he said in a soft, steely voice.

"But," Harry started.

"Now," Snape said with a glare that had Harry on his feet and up the stairs in moments.

Severus turned back to the Dursleys. "You will sign the papers and you will let Harry go. Otherwise, I will be forced to report the fact that you abandoned a fourteen-year-old boy while you and the rest of your family went on holiday. Of course, that would lead to other discoveries, one would think."

Petunia gasped. Vernon's gaze narrowed as he curled his meaty hands into fists.

"So what?" Vernon spat, as if not bothered in the least by Severus's threats, though his fists said otherwise. "Call the authorities! Let them come! Let them investigate and find out what a nasty little brat the boy is. They'll never believe him, you know, and they won't believe you."

"Vernon," Petunia interrupted, but Vernon kept talking.

"There will be questions for you too, you know. They'll want to know why you waited so long to say anything. A right nasty fix you'll get yourself in along with me. And the boy . . . well, no need to tell you about that. They'll have a field day with him."

"Vernon," Petunia called out more fervently as she shook Vernon's arm.

"What?" he roared as he turned to his wife.

"Sign the bloody papers," she whispered through clenched teeth.

"Have you lost your bloody mind? And simply give him what he wants?"

"Sign them," Petunia repeated.

It was fascinating watching Vernon and Petunia argue, pretending as if they weren't arguing. They, well Petunia at least, were trying to keep up appearances. That was what Severus was banking on, and it seemed his plan had worked. He knew he had them the moment Vernon started talking about investigators and questions. Petunia had paled and had begun clutching at Vernon's forearm frantically.

"But Pet," Vernon said with a childish whine.

"Sign them!"

Petunia's voice was shrill, desperate. Severus saw a flicker of understanding pass through Vernon's eyes at the unvoiced threats Petunia's words carried. With great effort, Vernon took the papers and signed them, grumbling the entire time about worthless boys and lifetimes of trouble.

"There. You've got your papers. Take the boy and go," Vernon said as he tossed the papers back with a flourish.

Severus nodded as he stacked the papers and returned them to their envelope. He stood and sneered. "It has been a most unique experience," he said as he turned, intent on going upstairs to see if he could help Harry pack his things faster. Vernon stopped him.

"I don't know how he's fooled you, but mark my words, that brat is worthless. He's good for nothing but a sharp scolding and a cuff about the ears. Mark my words, he'll drive you to drink, he will. That boy will cause you nothing but trouble. I ought to know. We've been stuck with his miserable hide since he was a year old when his worthless, do-gooding parents got themselves blown-up in some ramshackle flat whilst mediating some third world civil war!"

"If he was such a burden, why didn't you give him to a boy's home?" Severus roared, tired of this ridiculous house already. He'd no idea how Harry had stood it his whole life.

Petunia gasped. "You're not serious? He's family. Of course we had to take him." Petunia sniffed and rearranged the sweater resting on her shoulders. "What would people have thought?"

Severus sneered. "Forgive me, madam. I'd forgotten for a moment how important others' opinions of you were." He would never understand people like the Dursleys. It was better to get Harry away from them as quickly as he could. He turned and strode into the hall, but stopped abruptly. There—on the stairs, clutching the duffle that couldn't be more than half full—was Harry. His face was ashen. "Harry?" Severus called out, concerned for him.

"You told me they'd been killed in a car crash. Drunks, you said," Harry said as he stared at Vernon Dursley. "You told me they were worthless drunks!" Harry yelled. "Why couldn't you have given me just that—nothing more—just one happy thing, one thing I could be proud of. What difference did it make to you?"

Vernon's face purpled. "I don't have to answer your questions. You don't live here anymore, boy. Get out of my house and don't come back. If that school needs anything, tell them we've bloody moved!" Vernon shouted before stomping away to the kitchen.

Harry swallowed and closed his eyes.

"Let's go, Harry," Severus said.

Harry nodded. He shuffled down the stairs and walked to the door. Before leaving, he hesitated and turned back. Petunia's mouth set in a grim line. She rearranged the sweater on her shoulders, again, a nervous gesture she'd had for as long as Harry could remember. "Say what you mean to and leave," she snapped.

Harry took a deep breath. He meant to say nothing more than goodbye. Something entirely different came out. "You never gave me anything—not comfort, not love, not hope—nothing. I did nothing but try to please you. What was so awful about me that you couldn't even pretend to like me?"

"Harry, don't," Severus said as he tried to steer Harry out the door. No good would come from such a question to such a heartless woman, but before he could get Harry out the door, Petunia responded.

"You were a ghastly, needy little thing. Always crying for your precious mother. You played strange games and spoke in unnatural languages—probably from all of those despicable places your parents carted you to. I didn't want you, but I was forced to take you in. Be grateful that you lived here instead of a boy's home. At least here you had advantages, you learned the way of the world."

Harry laughed. "Oh, yes, Aunt Petunia. Such advantages you gave me. Lessons I'll never forget. I would say thank you, but that would destroy your image of me, I think. See you," Harry said as he pushed past Severus and hurried down the walk.

Severus stared at Petunia. "You've no idea of the precious gift you've wasted."

Petunia sniffed. "What's precious depends on the person, I think."

"That, Mrs. Dursley, is the only thing about which you and I agree," Severus said before he turned and left, hoping it was the last time either he or Harry would ever see the Dursleys.

Severus met Harry at the car. He was frowning and scuffing his feet on the pavement. He clutched the duffle as if it were his only anchor to the world. In some respects, it was. "Ready to leave?"

Harry bit his lip. "Erm. Can I have a moment, sir?"

Severus arched a brow, but nodded.

Harry hesitated. "Sir, you wouldn't happen to have a set of shears and a few specimen bags, would you?"

Severus's brows shot up, but he nodded again. "Yes. What for?"

"Just something I forgot," Harry said. "I'll only be a few moments. I promise."

Severus sighed. "A few moments. That's all. Do you need me to go with you?"

"No sir. It's not inside. I'll be right back."

"Very well."

Harry dropped the duffle and took the shears and bags Severus had in the boot. "I'll be back in a jiff," he said as he sprinted up the side of the yard and scurried around the back.

Ten minutes passed. Severus gave up his pacing and was about to go find Harry when he came barreling around the corner of the house, red-faced. There was a faint tinkling sound surrounding him. As he got closer, Severus noticed several cuttings from a few familiar night-blooming plants. He said nothing as Harry approached.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said, gasping for breath.

"Can we leave now, or is there some other mysterious errand you must run?"

Harry blushed. "No, sir. I'm ready to leave." Harry twisted around and looked at the house one final time. "It's time I left this place," he said, before scrambling into the car and staring straight ahead.


	16. The Boy in the Mirror

**Chapter 16: The Boy in the Mirror**

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**Great thanks to Sansa and snottygrrl for their fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.

Harry looked at his reflection and wondered if he knew the boy staring back at him from within the elegantly framed silvered glass. The boy in the mirror wore hand-sewn Italian loafers, blended silk socks and under things, finely tailored wool trousers, a crisp, white dress shirt that had his initials embroidered on the pocket, and a black wool blazer bearing the Wolsford crest. A flash at the boy's wrist caught Harry's eye—he'd almost forgotten about the small, silver cufflinks—monogrammed as well. Draco had insisted. Something about them being an extravagant necessity. At the time, Harry had been too overwhelmed to make much of a fuss. Now he rolled his eyes at the frippery.

"Rich people must forget their names a lot," Harry muttered under his breath as he grimaced at the little "HPJ" monograms stamped all over him.

Harry glanced up. The boy in the mirror was frowning. Harry suspected the boy didn't care for his humor, but Harry couldn't be arsed to care at the moment. He had bigger issues to worry about, namely how in the hell he was going to make it through the Wolsford start of term picnic.

Harry snorted. His entire life had changed in less than a month. A month ago, he'd been wearing worn trainers, shabby jeans and overlarge tee-shirts. He could fit everything he owned into a large duffle. He'd had a job at a nursery, a small room without windows, and an acute understanding of his place in the world.

Now he'd fallen down the rabbit hole. He had piles of expensive, tailored clothing, six pairs of shoes, a watch—Harry had never owned a watch—soft pajamas, matching robes, and slippers. He had trunks—_trunks_—full of other things, too. One was devoted to school things—brand new books, class journals with his initials stamped on the front in gold, a leather book satchel, engraved pens and a small box filled with different sizes of flat cards and folded notes engraved with his initials—for accepting invitations to parties and holidays, Narcissa had informed him. Then there were the other things. Sets of the softest sheets Harry had ever touched, squashy down pillows, warm blankets, and a green cashmere throw that, much as Harry hated to admit, he'd fallen in love with. Yet, for his reversal of fortune, Harry found himself almost wishing he could go back in time and tear up the Wolsford application instead of signing it. He had no idea what was going to happen next. Worse still, he had no idea who, exactly, he was supposed to be.

Harry brushed his clammy hands across the front of his trousers, immediately reddening at the thought that the posh looking boy in the mirror wouldn't have done something so crass. He shook his head. He'd never get used to such finery. He still felt like Harry inside, but he didn't know the boy staring back at him. He hoped he was nice.

"Oh, my! How handsome!" the tailor's assistant gushed as she swept back the heavy curtains in Harry's small dressing area and pulled him away from the mirror.

Harry was led out into the main room and pulled atop a small platform so that the tailor could inspect hems and darts and other things Harry cared little about. He took a shuddering breath as the man's hands tugged at the trouser legs. After weeks of being measured and poked and prodded, Harry still didn't understand why so much touching was involved.

"Oh, Harry. Such a young gentleman you are," Narcissa said with a smile as she rose from the designer chair and put down the fine bone china teacup and saucer. She walked around Harry, her fingers skimming along the lines of the blazer. "It fits you beautifully," she murmured to herself. "You'll be sure to catch some young lady's eye at the picnic." Before Harry could protest that he would much prefer that he catch no one's eye—much less the eye of some silly blueblooded girl—Narcissa turned to Severus and said, "Do we have a list of who's attending this year? I'd like to make the appropriate introductions for Harry. He simply must meet the Smythwicks, of course. Their daughter Pamela is about his and Draco's age, as I recall. That could be a lovely match, don't you agree?"

Harry's irritation grew the more Narcissa talked and planned and plotted. He wished Draco were here instead of in the back trying on his own uniform.

"Narcissa, don't you think you should let Harry acclimate a bit before marrying him off to the Smythwick girl?" Severus asked from the dark corner in which he'd nested for the afternoon.

"Don't be silly, Severus. Marriage is a bit off in the future, I think," Narcissa laughed, missing Harry's scowl and slumping posture.

Severus's gaze darted between Harry and Narcissa. There remained an underlying tension between them, but one neither wished to broach. Narcissa, determined to make up for every difficulty suffered by Harry, had thrown herself into getting him ready for school. Harry, subdued and overwhelmed, was going along with it because, Severus suspected, it was the easier course. Thus, it had been weeks of whirlwind shopping, measuring and constant chattering. Things had gone surprisingly well, especially with Draco and Severus there to act as buffers. But now, looking at Harry was like seeing the eight year old he'd met all those years ago, only he was taller now, his eyes a little less bright, his hair raffish instead of scruffy. Severus eyed the back of the shop, wishing Draco would come out and bring his mother back to Earth. If the conversation between Draco and the tailor's assistant was any indication, Draco would not be joining them any time soon. Severus sighed and pushed away from the wall.

"Stop scowling," Severus snapped at Harry. "And stand up straight," he added for good measure before turning to Narcissa. "Cissa, I need your assistance with the socks," he said as he steered her away.

"Socks? Why do you need assistance with socks?" Narcissa asked as she was led away. "What's so important about socks? You're a grown man. You can pick out what you want. Harry needs me," she said as she turned back.

Severus stopped her. "Narcissa, please," he said in a low voice. "You've overwhelmed him. This is a big change for him. Let him get used to wearing trousers that actually fit before you start flinging him at blueblood families who came out of the womb knowing the difference between Sterling and Martelé silver."

"Severus, don't be silly. Yes, it's an adjustment for him, but the faster he makes friends, the better off he'll be. Besides, I haven't heard an ounce of complaint from him—even after I bought him that green cashmere throw for his bed in the dormitory. He slept with it the other night, did you notice? The way the light was hitting him, he almost looked like a little boy curled up with his snuggly. Adorable. They grow up so fast," Narcissa crooned wistfully.

Severus pinched his nose in frustration. "That he hasn't complained, at all—even after you insisted that all his class journals be stamped with his initials—is rather the point, Cissa."

"Now you're just not making sense. Draco's journals are stamped with his initials, so are most of the other boys' journals. I just want Harry to have the same things. I don't want him to worry about not fitting in."

"Cissa, Harry is not Draco nor is he any of the other boys. He's not going to fit in if you force him into some preconceived mold. You've been nattering on for weeks about who he's likely to meet, coaching him through endless conversation topics, prepping him for introductions and other odd bits of etiquette. He's had a different life—a harder life—and all of the finely tailored worsted wool in the world isn't going to change or hide that."

"You don't think I know he's had a different life? Of course he has, Severus. That's precisely why I'm trying to help him now. The Wolsford circles can be dreadful to navigate if you don't know what you're doing. I refuse to have Harry begin his time there unsure of his footing."

"He's not being flung to the wolves, Cissa. Draco and I will be there to help him acclimate."

"He's no longer living with those awful people. He's a part of our world—I only want to make him realize that there's no need for acclimation."

"He will not see it that way! You must, on some distant level, recognize that Harry, for as bright and earnest as he is, does not understand the way the world works in a universe ruled by society parties and designer clothing. Not yet, anyway, and a month's worth of instruction isn't going to change that. He is not a project. He is a boy, one that needs to know that he is fine the way he is!"

Narcissa looked away. "I just . . ." she turned back to him, a familiar fire in her eyes. "I will not stand for anyone hurting him or making him feel inadequate, Severus. I—I . . . well, I stood around and let too many other people do that, didn't I? I won't let it happen again. Not when I can make sure it doesn't happen, not now when things are finally turning around for him."

"But neither can you foist your well-meant intentions on him. Mark my words, Narcissa, you push him too far, he will push back."

"Ridiculous," Narcissa said with a fluttering hand wave as she walked back, eager to discuss her plans for taking Harry and Draco to lunch at the latest London hotspot.

"Mr. Snape, might I have a word?" Harry asked while Narcissa nattered on with the tailor about the length of Draco's trousers. Draco had finally joined them a few minutes prior and Harry was grateful to relinquish the spotlight.

"Of course. Is everything all right?"

"Er, yes sir. I just wonder if, well, I mean, I don't rightly understand the terms of my stipend. I'm concerned, sir, that we've spent it all on all these things Mrs. Malfoy insists I need. I just . . . well, I was just wondering if perhaps you could convince her to, erm, return some things."

Severus knew this was going to come up. He'd been dreading it. "You're uniforms are not part of the stipend," he said, evading the question.

Harry scratched his head and looked back at Narcissa and a very bored Draco. He shuffled closer to Severus. "I don't think I really need seven complete uniforms. But, that's not what I'm talking about, not really. Things like these shoes. I don't need hand sewn shoes."

"One cannot return shoes, Mr. Potter."

"Okay, fine! Not the shoes, then. How about all those pairs of jeans and jumpers and button down shirts? I don't need all of that. Besides, the jeans I have are perfectly fine. I don't need new ones."

Severus glowered. "Are you referring to those threadbare, ill-fitting, faded scraps of cloth? I think not," Severus scoffed.

"I don't need all this stuff," Harry whispered furiously. "Why can't I just . . . I just . . . I don't need it, that's all I'm saying."

Severus stared at Harry until Harry started fidgeting nervously. "You are correct, of course. You don't need class journals with your initials stamped on them, nor do you need engraved stationary. I can see your dilemma."

"That's it exactly," Harry said in a rush, grateful that Severus understood. "I mean, who needs fancy stamped journals and engraved stationary," he said with a laugh, before stopping. It occurred to him that Mr. Snape never agreed with him so quickly. There must be a catch. "Er, you can see my dilemma? Sir?" Harry asked.

"Quite," Severus said with a nod and thin-lipped smile. "For instance, I'm sure we can return that cashmere throw," he said with a blank face. It was very hard not to laugh at Harry's stricken expression.

"The throw?" Harry squeaked.

"Yes, of course. You've got several other blankets I believe."

"Er, well, it gets cold there, you said, and, erm, well, I . . . I . . . I--"

"Calm down, Harry, no one's taking away your snuggly," Severus teased.

"It's not a snuggly!" Harry exclaimed, causing everyone to turn around and stare for a moment before returning to their in-depth discussion about whether Draco needed another pair of charcoal gray trousers. Harry's face reddened. He scowled at Severus's upturned lips and silent chuckles. "It's not a snuggly," he repeated in a harsh whisper. "I admit that I like it. I like it a lot, but if you think it should be returned, well then, I'll not complain. I imagine I'll have lots of expenses during the year. I want to make sure I've planned accordingly."

Severus was getting a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose—again—and sighed. "Harry, we're not returning anything. You've not used any part of your stipend."

"What do you mean? How am I to pay for all of this, then? Surely it's not just been given to me."

Severus pursed his lips while he stared at Harry, waiting for him to work out what was happening.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry growled a few seconds later. "I don't take charity."

Severus was tired of this. "It is not charity, you infuriating, foolish boy! It is a gift. Given out of the most honorable of intentions, I might add. Narcissa has the means to provide you with anything you desire and she wants to. She cares deeply for you, Harry, and regrets that she was not there for you when you needed her most. She only wishes you the best."

"I don't want—I . . . don't need it. Any of it! I don't . . . I don't . . ." Harry pulled at his hair. He struggled to keep his voice low. "I can take care of myself," Harry said with a sneer. "I don't need fancy shoes to do it!"

"It is okay to want," Severus said in a soft voice, effectively stopping Harry's tirade.

"I . . . what? I know that," Harry snapped.

Before Harry could say more, Draco and Narcissa wandered over.

"Harry, the tailor needs your uniform to make final adjustments," Narcissa said.

Harry opened his mouth to stay something, but after glancing at Severus, he closed his mouth and shook his head in frustration. "Of course," he said tightly as he pushed past and made his way to the back.

Draco looked at Severus and his mother in confusion before following Harry to find out what was wrong.

Harry stared at the boy in the mirror again before he took off his blazer. He whirled around at the sound of the curtains being drawn back.

"Harry? You okay?" Draco asked

"Fuck, Draco. You can't just barge in here," Harry barked.

"What's wrong with you, you prat?"

"Nothing."

"Right. So that furious whispering you were doing with Uncle Severus, the scowl on your face, the fact that your hands are clenching mean nothing's wrong?"

"Fuck you, Draco," Harry spat, unnerved that Draco had taken such notice of him.

"Would you stop _saying_ that?" Draco asked in a harsh whisper. "They'll hear you."

A dark smile curled on Harry's face. In a loud voice he said, "I don't give a _fuck_ if anyone hears what I _fucking_ have to say, so _fuck_ off, Draco."

Draco lurched forward and clamped his hand over Harry's mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "What is wrong with you?"

"Mmpfh!" Harry said, as he tried to pry Draco's hand away, which caused Draco to clamp tighter and move closer. That odd feeling prickled in Harry's stomach again, making his anger vanish. He noticed how warm and soft Draco's hand was. It was an odd thing to notice, given the current circumstances, Harry thought. He stilled and held his breath, puzzled by his reaction.

"Are you done with your little tantrum?"

Harry swallowed and nodded. He didn't know why he felt so nervous all of sudden.

Draco removed his hand and stepped back, leaving Harry feeling a bit bereft. "What's really going on?"

"Er, headache," Harry said, suddenly needing to be as far away from Draco as possible, because he wanted to be closer in some way, and that made no sense. Harry felt his cheeks burn with what he assumed was embarrassment. It was all very bewildering.

Draco sighed and smiled. "I told you to eat breakfast," he scolded as he stepped forward and squeezed Harry's shoulder, missing Harry's sharp intake of breath. "Mum had that gleam in her eye—the one that said she wouldn't let any of us rest or eat until everything was perfect. You should have said something to me. Come on, then. Get changed. I'll convince her that we need to go to lunch straight away."

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, still feeling . . . off.

Draco smiled again as he parted the curtain and walked away, leaving Harry staring after him wondering what in the hell was wrong with him.

Harry tossed back and forth before flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His soft sheets felt scratchy and his blankets too warm. He sighed and closed his eyes, and started counting back from one hundred again, hoping that, this time, he'd fall asleep. Faint strains from the telly downstairs drifted up the stairwell and into the room he'd been sharing with Draco since moving in. A string of canned laughter distracted him. His count disrupted, he started again. He'd gotten no further than before when, across the room, Draco rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something about cats before slipping back into a sound slumber.

"I should be doing that," Harry said as he sighed and stared at the ceiling some more, abandoning his count.

They were leaving for Wolsford in the morning. A sturdy leather valise sat next to Harry's bed. His uniform hung in the nearby cupboard. His watch sat on the nightstand and glinted in the moonlight. Everything else had been sent ahead. There was no turning back. Harry had never felt more alone. He pulled the green cashmere throw closer, fingering its soft edges. Perhaps it was a snuggly of sorts. Harry wished he could wrap himself in it and disappear. He was dreading tomorrow. He would never survive the picnic, which meant he would never survive Wolsford. Worse still, he was sure he would embarrass Draco, Mrs. Malfoy and Mr. Snape. He was sure he would fail.

Sleep was a long time in coming.

Harry stared out of the window, watching the lush green hills roll by. Mr. Snape drove along while Mrs. Malfoy and Draco gossiped about who would be at the picnic, who was engaged, who had divorced.

"You sound like two old washerwomen," Severus hissed when he'd reached his limit of gossip.

Harry smiled and was glad his face was turned away.

"Honestly, Severus," Narcissa tsked. "It's good to keep up. We wouldn't want to embarrass ourselves, not knowing the state of things."

Harry's smile faded. He slunk down in his seat a bit more and wished his palms would stop sweating.

"By the way, Draco," Narcissa began, "what do you know of the Smythwick girl? Pamela, I think?"

"Why do you ask?" Draco hoped this wasn't another one of his mum's fix-ups. He detested her constant matchmaking. The only girl he'd found that he was remotely interested in had been Jordan, and now she was off to Switzerland.

"I thought she and Harry might hit it off."

Draco heard Harry's sharp intake of breath. Even though Harry was facing away from him, as he had the entire trip, and he'd not said a word, Draco knew he was nervous and, for whatever reason, was not the least bit interested in meeting Pamela Smythwick.

"I don't think they'd hit it off at all," Draco said coolly. "She's far too cloying and she insists on wearing those ridiculous hats. She looks like she's going to a fancy dress party when she does." Draco stifled a grin and the sound of Harry's soft chuckles. "No, Mum, bad idea. Sorry."

Narcissa frowned, but turned back around and began chatting with Severus.

Draco leaned across the seat and whispered to Harry, "Don't worry, Harry, I'll protect you from the dastardly Pamela Smythwick and her hats of doom."

Harry couldn't keep his chuckles quiet any longer. Draco saw him relax, finally, and sat back, glad that he could take away a bit of Harry's nervousness.

"Here we are," Severus said sometime later. Harry turned and gasped at the imposing iron gates surrounding a large estate that appeared to be an old castle. The Wolsford crest dominated the front gate that creaked by slowly as they awaited entrance.

Once through the gates, they drove past the gamekeeper's house, the paddocks and stables, various outbuildings—the purpose of which Harry could not divine, and up around a circular drive to the front of the school. Hundreds of posh people milled about, waiting for the valets to take their cars. Harry could see the picnic in the distance—huge white tents were clumped together in a compound of sorts with a small chamber orchestra playing in the center. Harry watched as women air kissed each other, grave men shook hands and shared a few words, and excited students greeted one another with a mix of exuberance and practiced reserve. Harry had seen such a mix from Draco on occasion. Now he knew where he'd learned it. Harry shook his head. He'd never seen anything like the spectacle laid before him. He began to feel a bit sick. His hands had gone all clammy again. Before he could panic in earnest, a warm puff of breath tickled the back of his neck, startling him.

"It scared the shite out of me too, first time I saw those doors and all the people. Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine," Draco whispered.

Harry turned and faced Draco, drawing back at the realization of how close he was. "Really?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded solemnly before cracking a wry grin. "Come on. Time to make fun of Pammy's hats."

And just like that, Harry felt a bit better.

"Boys, you go on ahead, I need to have a word with a few members of the Board of Governors," said Severus as Narcissa flitted about.

Draco slung his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Let's find Blaise and Ron. You'll like them,"

"Who are they?" Harry asked as they walked towards the white tents.

"They're my best mates here. Ron's second to youngest of seven kids. His dad's an ambassador to some small country—I always forget which. The title's more impressive than the money, of course. Ron's a good guy. A bit hotheaded and a bit thick, but a good guy. Plays a wicked game of chess. There they are," Draco said, as he pointed to a swarming mass of ginger-haired people. Just then, a tall, freckle-faced boy turned and waved at Draco. He said something to his father before running over.

"Lo, Draco! Have a good holiday?"

"Yeah, it was great. How was yours?"

"Brilliant. Went to Egypt on one of Dad's diplomatic trips—the whole family."

"Sounds great," Draco said with a grin. He gestured towards Harry, intent on making introductions, but Ron took the initiative.

"Oh, hello," Ron said to Harry, as he looked him over. "I'm Ron, Ron Weasley. Nice to meet you, er . . ." A curious expression passed over his face. "You must be Jordan's brother." Ron turned to Draco. "I didn't know Jordan had a brother," he said.

"What are you on about?" Draco asked, at the same time Harry asked, "Who's Jordan?"

Ron's mouth flopped open, which he promptly closed. He stammered a bit and scratched his head. Harry noticed that Ron didn't wear cufflinks and that the edges of his blazer were slightly worn. He got the impression that the Weasleys weren't as keen on appearances as others. Harry relaxed some.

"Ron, this is my friend Harry Potter. We grew up together. This is his first term at Wolfsord. Harry, this is Ron Weasley. He's in our year. We've shared a dorm for years and he's a brilliant keeper for our football team."

Harry nodded at Ron, feeling a bit unnerved by Ron's gaze.

"You sure you're not related to Jordan?" Ron asked again, as if he hadn't heard anything Draco had said. He stared at Harry as if he were a puzzle to figure out.

"He's not related to Jordan," Draco snapped, intervening before Harry could speak. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"He looks just like her, is all. Surely you see it? The hair, the face, the, the, everything," Ron said as he made big circles with his hands in Harry's direction.

"Honestly, Ron. I think you need to get your eyes checked. Harry looks nothing like Jordan."

Harry couldn't stand being pinned under glass like this. He clenched his fists, his fingernails biting into his palms as he listened to Draco and Ron discuss the mysterious Jordan. He licked his lips while his eyes flitted to the right. He could just make out the gamekeeper's house, and the stables and the paddocks. He took a step back, wondering if he could slip away without being noticed. He was just about to take another step when Draco turned to him.

"Harry, tell Ron that your last name is Potter and that you're not bloody related to Jordan Richcourt!"

"Er," Harry said, as he glanced back and forth between the two, "I'm not related to Jordan Richcourt. Who is Jordan, by the way? An old mate or something?"

Ron choked and turned bright red before a huge guffaw escaped. "Bloody hell, no! Jordan is Draco's girlfriend," Ron said while wriggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

"Ron," Draco hissed, and said something else, but Harry didn't hear. He'd gone all cold at the announcement that Draco had a girlfriend. He didn't know why, either. Harry had known that Draco had friends at Wolsford—his best friends. That was hard enough to deal with. But the idea that Draco hadn't told him about having a girlfriend—never mind the fact that Draco had a girlfriend to begin with—hurt quite a lot.

Before anyone could say anything more, Harry felt a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Harry? There are some people I'd like you to meet," Narcissa said. "Hello Ronald. Lovely to see you again. I'm sure you can keep Draco occupied for a time?"

"Of course, Mrs. Malfoy," Ron said with a faint smile.

"Mother, can't it wait?" Draco snapped. It rankled that Ron had said he had a girlfriend. He didn't have a bloody girlfriend. He wanted—no, he needed—to explain to Harry, but his mum was ruining things.

"No, Draco, it cannot," Narcissa said with an icy tone that brokered no room for argument and warned Draco that he was treading in dangerous waters.

"Fine," Draco said in a huff, pulling Ron along with him as he stomped away.

"Nice to meet you, Harry," Ron called back.

Harry shook his head, grateful for whatever distraction Narcissa had planned. Of course, his relief was short lived.

Harry and Narcissa walked towards a large flora and fauna display beside one of the large tents. It looked like a demonstration garden of sorts, only Harry had never seen any of the plants potted there. There were large, sweeping palm-like fronds that shouldn't have been able to grow in Britain, except in a hothouse. Below that were zebra striped grasses and lovely spiky flowers that appeared to be some of the more exotic orchid varieties Harry had seen in pictures. It was mesmerizing. Standing in front was Mr. Snape. His arms were crossed and he was talking with a shorter man dressed in a linen summer suit. Narcissa's voice tugged him from his curiosity.

"Harry, that man Severus is speaking with is Mr. Stuart Smythwick. He's a botanist by training and a businessman by profession. His company makes synthetic materials used in sport garments and certain kinds of factory work. His wife, Gabby Smythwick—short for Gabardine, by the way—brought her father's vast wholesale fabric fortune into the marriage. Apparently, her family was the sole importer of fine gabardines for a very long time—hence her name and the match with Stuart. Their daughter's name is Pamela and their son, who attends Wolsford and is in your year, is named Jonathan. They are all botany buffs. I thought you might enjoy meeting them."

Harry's mind with spinning with all the information he'd been given. He nodded, hoping that was a sufficient response to Mrs. Malfoy's invitation. He would have preferred staying with Ron and Draco to this. It felt like a test of some sort, only Harry wasn't sure of the subject matter.

"Ah, Narcissa," Mr. Smythwick said as they approached. "So lovely to see you, my dear," he said as he kissed her cheek.

"Stuart. Always a pleasure. Where is Gabby? She hasn't left you to the wolves, has she?"

Mr. Smythwick chuckled, obviously delighted to be entertained by the likes of Narcissa. Harry felt like he'd been transported back to Draco's eleventh birthday. Everyone gravitated towards Narcissa, and Draco too, for that matter. Harry resisted the urge to flatten his hair and brush his clammy hands across his trousers.

"Gabby and Pammy are gossiping somewhere, and Jonathan, of course, is catching up with several of his year mates. They should be along shortly." Mr. Smythwick's gaze swiveled in Harry's direction. "And who is this fine young man? I don't believe we've met." Stuart stuck out his hand. "Stuart Smythwick. A pleasure to meet you."

Harry swallowed and shook Mr. Smythwick's hand, hoping for the life of him that his palm wasn't as clammy as he imagined it. "Harry Potter, sir. A pleasure to meet you as well."

"Harry is good friends with Draco. He'll be starting Wolsford this term. He's quite the avid botanist. I thought he would get on beautifully with your family."

Mr. Smythwick took stock of Harry. "A botanist, eh? Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you think of Severus's experimental garden here? Oh, I am sorry, this is Professor Severus Snape, one of the world's finest botanists and a wonderful teacher. I hope you'll have the opportunity to study with him." Mr. Smythwick leaned forward with a chuckle, as if sharing a juicy secret. "I must warn you, though," he said in a loud whisper, "he's rather keen on discipline and hard work and has a right ruddy temper," he said with a boisterous laugh.

Harry smiled. He liked Mr. Smythwick—he wasn't nearly as stodgy and posh-acting as Harry had expected. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.

"The platitudes will not work, Stuart. I've told you that I will not make exceptions for Jonathan. Besides, Mr. Potter and I are old acquaintances," Severus said, his arms still crossed. "I've known Mr. Potter since he was a small child. He was conjugating his verbs in Latin whilst Jonathan was still running around kicking balls for sport. That is why Harry will be in my Botany colloquium and Jonathan will not."

"But, Severus," Mr. Smythwick began.

"No."

Mr. Smythwick's shoulders slumped. Harry got the impression that this Botany colloquium was rather important to him.

"Of course, Severus. You're absolutely right. No, no, no," Mr. Smythwick said as he made a slight slashing motion with one of his hands. "If Jonathan didn't make the required score, then he shouldn't be allowed entrance to your colloquium, no matter the fact that we both know he's capable of the work and has a keen interest in the subject. No, you're right. It would be unfair to the other students, like Harry here, who've made the appropriate showing," Mr. Smythwick said with a decisive nod, as if he were the one convincing Severus.

"Glad we're in accord," Severus said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Mr. Potter," Mr. Smythwick said, his voice rife with calculation and duplicitousness, "tell me what you think of this garden. It was last year's colloquium's project. Extraordinary, isn't it?"

Harry stared hard at Mr. Smythwick, not liking him as much in that moment. He was obviously trying to make a point—one that would favor his son—by asking for Harry's opinion. Harry cocked his head and turned to the plants. Severus stepped to the side, his gaze boring into Harry. Harry put that aside as well as he scanned the various plantings and categorized them. It was the palm-like plant that capture his focus. He stroked the leaves, turning them this way and that, frowning as he tried to puzzle out what he was seeing. "But that doesn't make any sense," he whispered to himself.

"What was that, my boy?" Mr. Smythwick asked.

Harry didn't pay attention to him. He turned to Mr. Snape. "These leaves. They look like the leaves of a _Trachycarpus fortunei_—oh, sorry, a Chinese windmill palm," he said for Mr. Smythwick's benefit, "but this isn't the trunk of a _fortunei_. And they don't grow in Britain."

"Quite right, Mr. Potter," Mr. Snape said, a gleam in his eye. "These are, in fact, the leaves of _Trachycarpus fortuei_, but you see we've made a hybrid palm—one that will grow here."

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, feeling completely relaxed for the first time in a long while. "But how did you account for the cross-genus germination?" Harry asked, missing the way Mr. Smythwick's eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise.

Before Severus could answer, Narcissa gently turned the conversation back to the more important issue at hand—making introductions for Harry. "Severus? Harry? There will be plenty of time for that. This is a picnic, after all," she said with a light laugh.

"Quite right, quite right," Mr. Smythwick agreed, his assessment of Harry changed. "Tell me, Harry, where were you before? Obviously some place with a very find hard science curriculum."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Narcissa intervened.

"Harry attended school in Little Whinging. His, er, relatives, believe strongly in the local comprehensive school model."

Mr. Smythwick nodded. "Yes, yes, of course. A self-made man. I like that. But, why attend Wolsford now?"

Again, Harry opened his mouth to respond, but this time Mr. Snape intervened.

"Harry has outgrown what he could learn in his former environment. As Narcissa mentioned, Harry is a dear friend of the family. We persuaded his relatives that this is a more nurturing environment for him."

Mr. Smythwick seemed satisfied, but Harry was seething. All day everyone else had been answering questions for him, or telling him how to answer. He could bloody well answer his own questions and intended to the next chance he got.

"Potter . . . Potter . . . Potter," Mr. Smythwick muttered to himself, trying to place the name. "Is your father a solicitor by chance?"

Before either Narcissa or Severus could answer for him, Harry blurted, "No sir. My parents are dead."

An uncomfortable silence descended, made all the more painful by the sounds of tinkling glasses, laughing children, and the demure chatter of the Wolsford denizens.

"Oh," Mr. Smythwick said as he blinked in surprise. He had no idea how to respond.

Harry winced and muttered an obscenity under his breath, wishing he hadn't been so bloody headstrong.

"Er, family is a very sensitive topic for Harry," Narcissa said, trying to salvage the situation, making Harry wince further.

Well, Harry thought, in for penny, in for a pound. He drew in a deep breath and looked Mr. Smythwick in the eye. "I apologize, Mr. Smythwick," Harry said. "I'm rather nervous, you see. I'm rarely surrounded by so many people. I sometimes wish Mrs. Malfoy and Mr., er, Professor Snape could answer all of the questions asked of me. They're much better at it, as I'm sure you've seen," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

For a moment, everything was quiet, and then Mr. Smythwick chuckled. It was a rich, hearty sound. Everyone relaxed. "I understand completely, my boy. Why do you think I spend so much time with old Snape here at these bloody things? Next to him, I'm quite the gifted conversationalist!" Mr. Smythwick laughed again and Harry couldn't help but join in, even if he knew Mr. Snape was glowering at him.

Mr. Smythwick shook his hand again. "Mr. Potter, it has been delightful to meet you. I don't know what your plans are for start of term, but we usually host a small dinner for some of the returning students. We'd love to have you round out the group. I'll have Gabby send over an invitation."

Harry saw Narcissa smile. She was proud of him. Harry smiled back, feeling warm inside. "I look forward to it, sir," he said.

With one final nod, and a final exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Smythwick toddled off to find his wife.

"Well done, Harry," Narcissa said. "Well done, indeed. Now, let's find the Martins. We've a schedule to keep."

Harry blanched at the idea of having to go through something like that again.

"Narcissa," Severus growled.

"Harry, dear? Are you feeling okay? You look a little peaky."

Harry swallowed and shook his head. "Er, headache," he said. It was quickly becoming his favored excuse.

Narcissa frowned. "Draco mentioned something about you having a bad headache the other day. Are you well?" she asked as she brushed her hand across Harry's forehead.

Harry darted away from her touch. "Sorry," he said. "I'm fine. Erm, a bit thirsty, though."

"Narcissa, leave the boy be. Harry, go find Draco and meet some of your year mates. Those are the only other introductions you need to make today," Severus said with a stern glance in Narcissa's direction.

Grateful for the reprieve, Harry nodded and trotted away.

Instead of finding Draco, Harry decided he needed some time to himself. The people, the noise, everyone staring at him—it was all too much. He needed to get away. He wandered down the drive and slipped into one of the stables.

The smell of fresh hay and oats, the gentle whickering of the horses, the smell of leather and saddle soap wafting from the tack room—all of it was enchanting. Harry had never seen a horse up close before. He felt as though he were a real gentleman standing there, surveying his prized horses. He wandered up and down the sides of the stable, stopping at each stall and peering at the beautiful animals. There were black ones and brown ones, dappled ones and all sorts of others. They were huge—the lot of them. Harry was in awe as they looked him over, flicked their manes and whinnied in his direction. By the sixth horse, he'd mustered enough courage to pet the side of its face, drawing back when the horse flared its nostrils and snorted. The horse in the far corner, though, was the best of the lot as far as Harry was concerned. Huge and powerful, the chocolate brown horse with a black mane and tail paced around his stall. Harry could see the energy coiled in his muscles, ready to spring if given the chance. Harry sat on a bale of hay and just watched him. He had no idea how much time had passed.

"His name's Buckbeak—I wouldn't get too close, if I were you," a soft voice called, startling Harry. He turned and saw Draco standing a few feet away.

"Draco," Harry said, his mind racing for an explanation as to why he was there.

Draco smiled and sat beside him. "Thought I'd find you here. Mum's all frantic. She's afraid she scared you off, or some other such nonsense."

Harry snickered. "She very nearly did."

Draco nodded. "You could have found me, you know. I told you I'd protect you from Pammy's hats of doom and I thought you knew that extended to over-zealous mums desperate to match make."

Harry bit his lip and looked down. "Sorry. I just wanted some time to myself, I guess. This is all a bit overwhelming."

Draco nodded and didn't say anything further.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?" Harry blurted, his face hot with embarrassment at having asked such a question.

"She's not my girlfriend," Draco growled. "She just a girl, you know? Someone to have fun with at parties, someone to shag."

Harry's eyesbrows shot up, his hurt abandoned at this new revelation. "You mean, like sex?" he squeaked.

Draco laughed. "Yeah, Harry, sex. Surely you've heard of it."

"Er, yeah. 'Course."

Draco stopped laughing and looked Harry over carefully. "Oh my god!"

Harry blushed. "What? What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Harry Potter is a blushing virgin!" Draco crowed.

"Shut up, you stupid prat!" Harry hissed, glancing around wildly to make sure no one else had heard.

"It's okay, Harry, really," he said in between chuckles. "Ron's one too. Hermione won't let him near her. 'Not until we're married, Ronald,'" Draco imitated in a high voice before he started sniggering.

Harry opened his mouth to deny what Draco had said, but realized there wasn't any point lying about it. "Course it's all right," Harry snapped. "I'm only fifteen, you know."

"Er, yeah. Of course. It's not a race, or anything. I suspect you, uh, never had much time for relationships."

Harry shook his head. "No. Not really."

Draco nodded. "Well, there will be plenty of time for that," Draco said.

"I suppose."

"Don't you want to?"

Harry scratched his head. "I've really never really thought about it, I guess. I don't see what the big deal is."

Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and stood. "You don't see what the big deal is? Harry . . . you've, you know, wanked and stuff right?"

Harry stood as well, his face flushed with anger and even more embarrassment. "What the bloody hell kind of question is that? Of course I've wanked, Draco. I'm not a . . . a . . . a eunuch or something."

Draco wrinkled his nose, about to ask what a eunuch was, but decided it wasn't worth knowing. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I was just making sure, because sex is like, well, it's like wanking only a million times better."

"Well, now, _that's_ inspiring."

Draco jabbed Harry's shoulder, the heat of his fingers making Harry's stomach squirm. "You know what I mean, you prat."

"I suppose," Harry said, stepping away.

"Come on. The picnic's almost over. I suspect the prefects will be leading everyone on the tour of the school soon. We really shouldn't miss it. Besides, Mum is probably beside herself at the thought of how many matchmaking opportunities she's missed."

Harry laughed and started walking towards the door. Draco pulled him back, staring at him intently. "You know I would never keep something important like having a girlfriend from you, don't you? You're my best friend, Harry. I mean that."

Harry's stomach flipped over. He nodded. "Course, Draco," he murmured.

Draco smiled. "Good." He spit on his hand and held it out. "No secrets, yeah?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but spit on his palm and clasped Draco's hand. "No secrets."

Draco squeezed Harry's hand. "Brilliant," he said. "We better get back. Have I told you about my friend Blaise?"

Harry shook his head as he followed Draco out of the stable and back towards the white tents and awkward conversation, Draco chattering all the way about Blaise, Ron, and Harry's new life at Wolsford.


	17. Rites of Passage

Chapter 17: Rites of Passage 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**Great thanks to separatrix and snottygrrl for their fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.

"Morning, Potter," Blaise drawled as he turned on the shower next to Harry's and went about his business.

Harry grimaced and shuffled as far away from Blaise as he could. His first week at Wolsford had been a fast education in living in very close quarters with other fifteen year-old boys. He had been mortified when he learned that only the prefects and head boy had private baths. Communal showers were normal, apparently. Harry, never having boarded or participated in sport and physical education, had never suffered through this particular rite of passage. It made him keenly aware of his body in a way in which he'd never really thought of it before. That, of course, made him uncomfortable, as did the way the other boys carried on boisterous conversations and borrowed each other's shampoo with the nonchalance of asking for the sugar at Tea.

"You've got Botany Colloquium this afternoon, right?" Blaise asked as he washed with lazy circles of his flannel.

"Yes," Harry said through gritted teeth as he scrubbed as quickly as possible. He'd decided that, in order to avoid the indecency of having to shower with the other boys, he'd get up at five o'clock every morning. Blaise Zabini had turned out to be an early riser as well. A chatty one at that. Bugger.

"Mind your P's and Q's in that class, Potter. Professor Snape's punishments and tongue-lashings are legendary. Keep your head down and don't call attention to yourself. The last thing you want is to be the first person called in his class. Trust me on that. I've heard stories," Blaise said with a quick glance in Harry's direction, as if to add emphasis.

Harry darted to the corner of his shower, pretending to wash his hair. While the showers were spaced far apart, and small walls that came up to Harry's waist separated each one, those small indulgences gave only the illusion of privacy. One could see everything if one were looking. Harry wasn't looking. In fact, he was taking great pains to ever avoid looking or being looked at. "Honestly, bloody expensive school can't afford private showers?" Harry muttered to himself as he washed as quickly as he could.

"What was that?" Blaise said as he bent back and peered over the wall at Harry.

Harry turned his head away. "I said, thanks for the advice."

"No problem."

Harry hoped Blaise might have been finished with his chattering, but to no avail. Just as he began to relax, Blaise started up again. "Only three more weeks to the first official cottage party. Very exclusive invitation list, you know. Of course, being my dorm mate and Draco's friend grants you an automatic spot on the list. It's always a good party, too. Lots of pretty girls from Collenton will be there," Blaise said in a sing-song voice with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Right. Party. Thanks," Harry said, as he washed the last of the soap away, turned off the shower, and grabbed his robe. He'd never been more thankful for Mrs. Malfoy's insistence that he have a robe. "See you," he said as he gathered his things and rushed to his wardrobe cupboard.

Harry knew exactly what Blaise had been trying to convey with his waggling brows. His dorm mates had been talking non-stop about the upcoming party. Ron couldn't wait to get up with Hermione—as far as Hermione would let him go, of course. Which, if the jokes were anything close to the truth, wasn't very far. Far worse was the swaggering gait Blaise had adopted every time the subject of Collenton girls came up, which inevitably led to frank discussions between Blaise and Draco about their sexual prowess, and Ron's guilty tittering about which of the Collenton girls had grown breasts.

That teenage boys thought about such things was not news to Harry—even if he didn't think of such things or participate in such conversations. What was rather startling was that it happened at Wolsford. He'd honestly believed that graphic conversations about sex (and misinformed ones at that, Harry thought), the size and feel of girls' breasts, wanking—God, they talked incessantly about wanking—and how to tell if a girl was an easy lay were restricted to the loo at his old comprehensive school, or the backrooms of pubs populated by low class drunkards. Not so. It was disgusting, really. Didn't they have any sense of decorum? Apparently not. That Harry had nothing to contribute (other than a damned infuriating blush on just the tips of his ears that he couldn't seem to make go away) had caused him no small amount of ribbing about being uptight and ignorant of the world's pleasures. Ron and Blaise had decided it was their personal mission to acquaint Harry with all of their favorite vices. Harry didn't think it was such a good idea, but had said nothing. Draco had merely sneered in their direction and said something uncomplimentary about their choices in vices.

The stirring of his sleepy dorm mates brought Harry back to the present. Time to get ready for classes. He felt a frisson of nervous excitement as he put on his uniform. He wondered if that feeling would ever go away. He looked at the boy in the mirror. This time he didn't seem so foreign and unapproachable.

Draco strolled through the halls of Wolsford as if they were part of his fiefdom and all the other boys scurrying about worked his lands. He turned to Harry, whom he was ferreting to his next class, and reminded him that he he'd be waiting for him at the end of class to walk him to dinner.

"Draco, I told you I don't need an escort to every bloody class."

"You nearly got lost on the way to Literature the other day and those older boys would have sent you to the North Tower for History had I not been there and you'd listened to them. You're already on edge today. I'm just trying to do what I can to make it bit easier on you. It's a bloody castle, Harry—easy to get lost."

"I'm not on edge."

"Of everything I've just said, that's what you focus on?"

Harry scrubbed his eyes and stopped walking. He was tired and overwhelmed and cranky and was dreading the Botany Colloquium. He didn't much care what his other professors thought of him, but Professor Snape was altogether different. "All right. So I'm a bit on edge," he conceded. He slumped against the wall and bit his lip.

Draco rolled his eyes and leaned next to him, knocking Harry with his shoulder to get his attention. "You've nothing to worry about. You've survived Literature, Maths, Biology, Latin, and History—I can't believe they brought Boring Old Binns back, by the way—and a visit with the barmy headmaster on Monday. You've been measured and analyzed and tested in every class and you've survived unscathed."

Harry went a bit pale at that. "What do you mean, 'measured and analyzed and tested?'"

"Again, Harry, focusing on the wrong things. What's important is that you're about to go into the one class, the one place, where you know you'll excel and where you've got the professor in your corner. Relax and go play with your plants."

"I don't play with the plants, Draco."

"Focus. Wrong thing. Again."

Harry snorted. "Thanks," he said.

"Anytime. Now, off you go. After dinner I thought we could start working on revising for Literature."

Harry bit his lip. "Um. I sort of said I'd study for Biology with a few of the others in the Main Library after dinner."

Draco's smile in response was as stiff and tense as his shoulders. "Of course. Afterwards, then."

"Uh, sure. We . . . we might be going late . . ." Harry trailed off.

Something flickered in Draco's eyes, something that Harry couldn't grasp in the split-second it lingered. "No problem," Draco said with perfect, cold politeness as he smoothed his trousers. "I should start helping Blaise coordinate the invitation list for the party, anyway."

"About that. I was thinking about not going. I'll never get through all my assignments in time and we have that comparative paper due in Literature right after. And what if we get caught? I really don't want to be expelled after only being here a few weeks. So, yeah, I don't think I'm going."

"You can't be serious," Draco gasped, his demeanor changing. "Look, Harry, the party is during an official school holiday. Blaise's brother is going to take you, me, and Blaise for the weekend. There's no 'sneaking' to worry about. Besides, you can't miss this party."

"I'm not much of a party person. Haven't been to too many, you know."

"You've been to my parties."

Harry let loose a short bark of laughter. "Yeah, when we each turned eleven. Somehow I doubt this party is of the cake and punch variety."

"Oh, there'll be punch there," Draco said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Harry studied him for a long moment. "Do you take a class in that?"

"Class in what?"

"Malicious eyebrow waggling. It seems as though whenever any of you want to make suggestive innuendo or discuss clandestine plans, you waggle your eyebrows. How do you _do_ that? Anyway, don't you think the professors notice? All of that unnatural eyebrow movement is sure to catch someone's attention."

Draco's face went from pale to bright red to pale again, all while his jaw worked up and down like a landed fish. "Look here, Potter," he began, but stopped at Harry's chuckle. "So you think you're funny, do you? Just for that, I won't mention that I talked with the gamekeeper, Mr. Hagrid, about teaching you to ride outside of classes, or that he said yes, or that he said he might consider letting you ride Buckbeak someday," Draco said as he turned on his heel and started walking away.

"Draco, wait!"

Draco turned, his face smug and dismissive. "Yes? Oh, I'm sorry, I do hope my eyebrows didn't waggle. I know how much that _offends_ you."

"Stop being a prat, look, did you really ask? Did he really say yes?" Harry questioned in a breathless rush.

Draco smiled. "Course. Told you I'd convince him, didn't I? We'll start next week—see how you do with one of the older mares first. Assuming you can tear yourself away from your study dates."

"Brilliant," Harry said, not noticing the bitterness in Draco's voice about Harry's "study dates." Bells chimed in the distance and several students rushed by. "That would be my cue, I think. See you," he said as he waved goodbye and scurried into the classroom.

"See you," Draco said to Harry's back, feeling unsettled about something, but unable to understand what it was.

The first thing Harry noticed was that, including him, there were only about twelve students in the Colloquium class. The next thing he noticed was that ten of those students were upper years, leaving him and a milquetoast chap named Neville Longbottom, also in Harry's year. Neville looked as much a fright in this class as he had in Literature, where he'd dropped his books and his sent his journals and pens flying just trying to make it into class. Harry had started to stand to help him, but stopped when Draco and Blaise sneered and made a joke about "Nervous Neville's" clumsiness. Seeing Neville now—just as unsure and unconfident as before—Harry regretted that decision and decided to rectify it.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" Harry asked Neville, who started with such alarm at being spoken to that he sent his dissection kit to the floor and nearly fell off his stool. Harry grimaced at the titter of laughter behind him. This—this sense of superiority, of disdain from the other students—was what he'd been expecting all along, only he'd expected that it would be directed at him. That it was directed at someone else, and that Harry had a decision to make about how he dealt with it, was a surprising quandary in which to find himself. If he'd been back at his comprehensive school, Harry would have laughed along with the other students, said something smart, and found somewhere else to sit. Little Whinging had been about survival and surviving meant keeping his head down and staying out of notice as much as possible. But he wasn't in Little Whinging anymore. He refused to let his new life be dictated by the same rules.

"May I?" Harry asked again, when Neville remained wide-eyed and silent.

"Course," Neville stammered.

"Thanks. Er, I'm Harry Potter, by the way," he said as sat and stuck out his hand.

Neville looked afraid for a moment before thrusting his own hand forward and shaking Harry's with far too much enthusiasm. His beaming smile made Harry feel a bit sad. "Pleasure to meet you, Harry. I'm Neville. Neville Longbottom."

Harry didn't get a chance to say anything else, because at the moment the door at the back of the room flew open with the bang. The snap and swish of heavy robes sounding in time with sureness of step cut through the air, preceding Professor Snape like a band of maudlin heralds.

"Stop your chattering and sit straight, eyes ahead," Professor Snape commanded as he strode through the class and up to the front. He turned with knife-like precision before unfolding his long-fingered hands and splaying them across the podium. The room was silent.

"I am Professor Severus Snape. Each of you is here because you have displayed some interest in botany and some modicum of ability in the area of biological sciences. We have far too much material to cover in this course, which means you will work very hard in this class and you will have too much work to do and not enough time to do it. I suspect you will think me horribly unfair in my assignments and my grading. I do not mollycoddle, so do not expect gold stars," Professor Snape said with a sneer.

There was a short snigger of laughter that Professor Snape let go. Harry wondered why, but then Neville whispered that another professor used to favor handing out gold stars and had been sacked for low academic standards.

"I demand that you give me your very best," Professor Snape continued, putting an end to the soft sniggers and chattering. "If I do not believe that you are working to your full potential, I reserve the right to turn you out. Look around the room, gentlemen. Some of you will be leaving Wolsford at the end of the year and others will be sitting exams before moving on to A Levels. You may be in different years, but in this class you will be treated the same. I make no exceptions. You will all be held to the same rigorous standards. Some of you will fail to meet those standards, but a select few will exceed them. Those few will be my research assistants for this year's project. If this is too much for you, leave. Now."

Harry was tempted to leave. What he'd thought would be an easy time—well, easier than his other courses—had become a nightmare. His hands crept to his satchel, but before he could grab the shoulder strap proper, Professor Snape's glare rested on him and said wordlessly, "Don't you dare." Harry stared back dumbly as he hands uncurled and moved back to his lap.

"Very well," Professor Snape said as no other students made an attempt to leave. He folded his arms within the voluminous sleeves of his robes. He stepped away from the podium. "It is very few students who are permitted to study the noble, subtle art of Botany. I can teach you to create things you thought unimaginable—flowers so beautiful and with perfume so potent they ensnare and bewitch; plants so prodigious that they seem to multiply and divide in front of your very eyes; hybrids so rare that you'll swear they are otherworldly. Before we can accomplish those things, however, there is the matter of the basics."

Professor Snape flew back to his podium and ran his right index finger down a page. "Mr. Potter," he barked, "What is the purpose of botanical name classification?"

Harry felt like he'd been struck by lightning. Blaise's words from earlier that morning came back to him and sounded like a clamoring bell inside his head. He couldn't believe that Professor Snape had called on him. Why was he doing this? To him? Didn't he know how nervous he was? Was he really that cruel?

"Mr. Potter, we are waiting," Professor Snape said, still studying the sheaves of paper on his podium, as if he couldn't be bothered to look at Harry.

Harry blushed in embarrassment as several of the older students laughed. His hands, however, curled in anger. He would not be made a fool of. He was furious with Professor Snape. "To provide a neutral classification of flora and fauna free from cultural and locality based identifiers," Harry barked, not caring a whit that he sounded belligerent.

"That is correct," Professor Snape said, still without looking up. "An example, please--_Cirsium lecontei_, perhaps. Define, Mr. Potter."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. His mouth flopped open a bit and his hands uncurled before he grabbed hold of himself. Harry didn't pay attention to the furious whispering sweeping behind him or the choked sounds coming from Neville. Professor Snape wasn't being cruel at all—he was being uncharacteristically kind.

"Thistle, sir. _Cirsium_ descends from the Greek kirsion, which means thistle. _Lecontei _refers to LeConte—the botanist credited with discovering this particular species of thistle."

"Its physical attributes, Mr. Potter."

More furious whispering and choking sounds followed. "Pink blossoms, sir, and a nasty barb."

"Why not then, Mr. Potter, just call it pink thistle with a nasty barb?"

A smattering of laughter broke out. Harry smirked as well, but for different reasons—reasons no one else in the room would understand unless they had met Professor Snape as an inquisitive eight-year-old boy. "Because there are a great number of species and varieties of pink thistle, sir, but there is only one _Cirsium lecontei_."

"Precisely. Tell me, Mr. Potter, why is that important."

Harry bit his lip and tried to think of an answer. Professor Snape had stopped tossing out the easy questions. It was up to Harry to puzzle this one out. "Each species of plant has its own peculiarities. Even though, at first glance, two kinds of pink thistle look alike, they are rather different biologically. It's important to understand plant classification so that you always know what you're working with. For instance, in hybridization work, not knowing which pink thistle you're working with could be disastrous."

The room was silent as Harry finished. Professor Snape's stare bore into him. Even the air dared not move. Harry resisted the urge to bolt from the room.

His eyes never leaving Harry's, Professor Snape growled, "Why aren't the rest of you writing this down?"

In the next instant, there was an explosion of sound as Harry's classmates scrambled for their satchels, muttering excitedly under their breaths the whole time. Harry heard the crack of new journal spines all around him and the sounds of pens and pencils scraping across the fine linen pages. Seconds later, Professor Snape launched into his lecture, which had Harry scrambling for his own satchel and journal.

"A word, Mr. Potter," Professor Snape said as he finished his lecture and dismissed the class.

Harry nodded and set about gathering his things.

"You know a lot," Neville said, as he swept his things into his bag in one big jumble.

Harry shrugged. "I like plants," he said softly.

Neville nodded. "Me too. About the only thing I'm good in actually."

Harry smiled, feeling a bit of empathy for Neville.

"Perhaps . . . well, I mean, . . . I was thinking . . .the workload seems brutal, I thought maybe you might--" but Neville didn't get a chance to finish. An older boy approached them, stood in front of Neville, and stuck out his hand to Harry.

"Potter, I'm Thomas Wright. This is Dennis Coatfield and Jason DuPrez," he said as two older boys joined them. "We've talked it over and have decided that you should be in our study group. Tuesdays and Thursdays, Main Library, eight o'clock."

Harry looked over the older boys warily. He shook the proffered hand while he thought what he should do. From his peripheral vision, he could see Neville deflate a bit. It was obvious he'd been about to ask Harry to be his study partner. Harry had already learned that study groups were essential at Wolsford and their formation had as much to do with social standing as intelligence. They formed quickly and were jealously guarded. Harry, of course, didn't give a toss about the political nonsense that accompanied these groups.

"Er, thanks," Harry said, glancing at Neville's slumped posture and his ill-disguised frown. "I'm sure Neville would love to join up as well, wouldn't you Neville?"

"M-m-me?" Neville squeaked. "I-I-I . . . Me?" he repeated, though no one was paying attention.

Thomas snorted. "Nervous Neville? Are you joking?" he sneered, while the other boys sniggered.

"No, I'm not," Harry said, furious that these boys thought themselves Neville's betters. "Guess it's just you and me, Neville," Harry said as he turned away and packed his things.

Thomas sputtered and turned a fantastic shade of purple. "Look here, Potter," he began, while Neville dropped his satchel in surprise and stammered, "Me?" again.

Harry turned and fixed Thomas with a glare—the glare he'd reserved for teachers that asked too many questions or other kids who'd tried to have a go at Harry at his old school.

Thomas backed down. "Look, Potter. We don't normally even bother with younger years, but you clearly know your stuff and you've impressed Snape—a damned impossible feat. We've nothing against your . . . uh . . . friend, here. We just don't have time to waste. Surely you can understand that?"

"Neville's quite good with plants, otherwise he wouldn't be here. A study group sounds brilliant, only I'm studying with Neville. Main library. Mondays and Wednesdays. Seven-thirty." Harry glanced at Neville, who nodded jerkily in confirmation, his face flushed with embarrassment or happiness—Harry didn't know which. He turned his attention back to Thomas. "You're welcome to join us," he said with a shrug before turning and making his way to the front of the room. "See you," he called over this shoulder to Neville, who sputtered something back, before Thomas started grilling him about what he knew about botanical name classification.

"Impressive, Mr. Potter," Severus said as Harry made his way to the front of the class.

Harry flushed. "Well, you made it a bit easy on me," he mumbled.

"Not what I was referring to," Severus said while glancing at Neville and Thomas, who now seemed in the thick of a theoretical discussion as they wandered from the class.

Harry twisted around to see what Professor Snape was looking at, and ducked his head as Neville and Thomas shook hands and went their way.

"How are your classes?"

"Er, fine," Harry said as he turned back, surprised by the question.

"If you experience any issues, please know that you can always come to me."

Harry nodded.

"How is the dormitory experience thus far?"

Harry flushed and looked down at his feet. He cleared his throat. "Erm, it's not quite what I'm used to," he said.

There was a long pause before Severus spoke again. "Most of these boys you're living with have been boarding for a long time. They have no sense of modesty, as you might have guessed."

Harry bit his lip and kept his head down. He nodded. "Yeah, I'm beginning to get that sense. They're rather, uh, nervy," he said, remembering what he'd heard two nights prior. How Ron had possibly thought velvet bed hangings would keep his wanking private, Harry didn't know.

"What's happened? Have the boys been harassing you? Is there something that needs to be handled?"

"No, sir. Nothing like that," Harry said hastily. "It's just--" he looked away and tightened his grip on the shoulder strap. "I just thought it might be different, is all. I mean, I thought we'd talk about philosophy and things. Instead . . ." Harry hesitated.

Severus chuckled. "Instead, your dorm mates are more interested in discussing girls and parties."

Harry's eyebrows shot to his hairline, as if to ask, 'how could you possibly know that?'

Severus chucked again. "I was a young man once too, you know."

"I didn't mean to imply . . . I mean . . . I just—I just never really gave much thought to those kinds of things," Harry sputtered, finishing with a whisper.

"No, I suppose you had more pressing things on your mind. Now you can think of such frivolities, and you should, Harry. There is much about adolescence that is quite enjoyable."

Harry's face burned with embarrassment. This was not the kind of conversation he wanted to have with Professor Snape—or anyone, for that matter.

"I understand you're considering learning to ride," Severus said, changing the subject once again.

"Ride, sir?"

"Yes. Ride. Horses, I believe they're called."

Harry scowled and resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. "Yes, Draco's decided to teach me. I've always wanted to ride a horse. It will be brilliant, I think. Draco says that he thinks I'll be a natural, though I'm not sure how you can tell a thing like that. He says he thinks I'll have a good seat, what ever that means."

"Draco seems to have given this a lot of thought," Severus said. His tone was a bit hesitant, but Harry didn't notice.

"I think he has. He's already organized a schedule, I think, though he's not shown it to me. He thinks eventually I'll be able to ride Buckbeak."

"That vicious beast? I think not," Severus scoffed, already thinking that a visit to and few words with Hagrid were in order.

"He likes me!" Harry defied. "And I'm not some delicate china doll, you know."

Severus's mouth quirked at the edges. Harry went to great lengths to prove how "tough" he was. "Be that as it may, that horse is dangerous. It takes an especially gifted rider to handle him. I simply want you to be careful. And as for being a china doll, you do not have to fear proving your toughness to me. I expect far too much of you to ever think you delicate."

Harry grimaced. "I . . . sorry, sir," he whispered.

Severus nodded. "Along those lines, there are some things we should discuss. I know what you are capable of, Harry, which puts you a great disadvantage. I will demand more from you than any other student, and not just in this class. I plan to follow up with all of your professors on a regular basis, as I doubt seriously the Dursleys will do so. I tell you this now so that you understand what is expected of you."

Harry nodded. Part of him chaffed at the idea of being minded like a small child, but the larger part of him felt ridiculously pleased that someone like Professor Snape would take such an interest in him. "I'll do my best, sir. I swear it."

"Good." Severus hesitated for a second, as if deciding what topic to address next. "I assume you have made the cut for Mr. Zabini's cottage party?"

The question came out of nowhere and Harry, never good at diffusing Professor Snape's sideways attacks, stuttered and stammered before finally blurting, "You know about that?"

"Of course I do. All the professors do. And we've all taken the older students aside and made it very clear what the consequences would be for them should anything happen to younger students like you."

"But . . . but . . . there are . . . things and, and . . . yeah . . . uh . . . things that—that happen at these parties, or so I've been told," Harry added hastily.

Severus drew himself to his full height and stared down at Harry. "Do you believe, Mr. Potter, that your generation is the first to conceive of the idea of having illicit parties on holiday weekends?"

"I—I—I--"

"Attending a party is not license to make a fool of yourself. I ask that you act in a responsible manner befitting a young man from Wolsford. You are neither hooligan nor beast. If I find out that you have acted foolishly, recklessly, or in any way that is a danger to your well-being, I will personally see to your punishment. Am I clear?"

Harry could only nod in response.

"Good."

"Erm, I better go. I think Draco's waiting in the hall for me."

"Is he," Severus said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah. He's taken it in his head that I need an official escort to all of my classes for the first week or so. He can be rather odd at times," Harry said with a chuckle.

Severus narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a fine line.

Misunderstanding the reason behind Professor Snape's narrowed gaze, Harry prattled on, hoping to clarify what he meant. "I don't mean _odd_, odd, just, er, odd. I guess I'm just not used to having someone show me around and stuff," Harry babbled, trying to loosen the grim line Professor Snape's mouth made. "Though, that's not strictly true. I mean, when we were kids at Bennington-Bright, Draco, uh, well, you know, he looked out for me. I guess it's no different here. I mean, he's made all sorts of introductions for me. And we've got that Smythwick dinner this weekend. Draco's been giving me pointers about everyone who's going to be there, the kinds of questions to ask, and things like that. He says that it's important to make the right acquaintances and impressions. Sort of like what you said earlier, only Draco said it differently. And, well, yeah . . ." Harry said, trailing off and feeling rather unsuccessful as Professor's Snape's gaze was still narrow, his mouth still compressed into that same grim line.

"I seem to recall a brazen young boy that made it perfectly clear to Draco Malfoy that he was not a thing to be dragged about," Severus said at long last.

"What? What do you mean? It's not like that," Harry said.

"Isn't it?"

"No. Draco's trying to help me. Not make me some sort of plaything."

Severus sighed. "I'm sure Draco has the best intentions, but I think it would be wise for you to make your own friends, on your own terms, much like you did with Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Wright. Don't let Draco dictate every moment of your day. I know all of this is rather overwhelming and it's easier to rely on someone who knows the state of things. But you're stronger than that. You can do this on your own."

Harry pulled the shoulder strap of his satchel closer. "I know that," he said with a sniff, wondering if, in fact, he'd been letting Draco take over because it was easier than doing it himself.

"See that you remember it," Severus said. "Off you go, Harry. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all."

Harry nodded and left, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

When the door had closed, Severus sat heavily in his chair. He didn't like the way Draco was shepherding Harry around the school as if he were a prize possession—not at all. But, truth be told, Severus had his suspicions about the true reasons behind Draco's behavior. He doubted Draco knew himself why he was acting the way he did. Severus knew for a fact that Harry hadn't any idea. Severus thought that, if forced, Draco would posit some vague excuse about Harry's traumatic past and the tie of their childhood friendship as the reason for his hovering protectiveness. While plausible, Severus doubted that was all of it. Draco was quite taken with Harry. It was obvious to those who cared to look. But what did that mean, exactly? What would Draco do when he realized that? Worse still, what would Draco do out of frustration because he didn't understand?


	18. Mr Independent

Chapter 18:Mr. Independent 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to separatrix and snottygrrl for their fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.

"Damn it," Harry swore under his breath as he heard the now familiar shuffling from Ron's bed. It was one o'clock in the morning and Harry couldn't sleep. Neither could Ron, it seemed. After two weeks of living with him, Harry knew what to expect. Wanking. As if on cue, there was the soft snick of a drawer opening and closing. Harry rolled over and crushed his pillow to his head, hoping he wouldn't hear. Of course, knowing what Ron was doing only made Harry hyper aware of every sound in the room. The rustle of sheets, a sharp intake of breath, and the faint sounds of slapping skin penetrated Harry's pillow. Harry cursed under his breath, pulled the pillow around his head more tightly, hoping that Ron would get on with it.

Thus far, Harry had resisted the urge to get up, yank Ron's curtains back, and remind him that, while privacy was a limited commodity, a bit of cloth would not cloak his activities with secrecy and he was bloody tired of listening to him. He had to live with Ron, after all, and Ron was Draco's friend. Ron was Harry's friend, too, when he thought about it. Ron had taught him how to play chess, told fantastic stories about growing up with five brothers and a bratty younger sister, and about all of the magical places his family had visited over the years. Harry didn't want to do anything that might somehow impair any of that. But more than that, Draco had told him the "rules of engagement," as they were—what kinds of things he could cry foul over, when he could complain, et cetera, et cetera. Apparently, inconsiderate wanking was not on the list.

All of the ridiculous, unspoken protocol made Harry dizzy. He wanted to follow it. He wanted to fit in at Wolsford. But, at the same time, Professor Snape's words after Harry's first Botany class whispered incessantly in the back of his mind. Perhaps he wasn't being independent enough. So, when Ron started in with a series of low, warbling moans, Harry had had enough. Friendship and protocol be damned. He got to his feet, stomped over to Ron's bed, and ripped back the curtains.

"Must you do that all the bloody time?" Harry roared, ignoring Ron's surprised scream or the way he tried to cover himself with his hands, only succeeding in tangling himself in the sheets and wobbling off the bed.

"Bloody hell!" Ron squeaked, as Blaise sat straight up in bed and cried, "What the fuck is going on?" while Draco drawled, "Shut the bloody hell up! Some of us have to get up early."

Ron yanked his coverlet down and wrapped it around his middle. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to get some sleep. But with you playing . . . doing . . .Jesus fucking Christ," Harry muttered under his breath as he rolled his eyes, "with you _wanking _all the fucking time, no one can get any sleep. Do what any normal person does and sneak into the bloody loo, bite your bloody tongue, and get it over with!"

It was silent for a moment before Blaise burst out laughing. "Fuck, Potter. Is that what you do? Sneak off to the _loo_?"

"That's none of your damn business," Harry snapped, the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. He'd assumed that Ron was the aberration in all of this. He didn't have time to think about the possibility that _his _preferred wanking method was that different from the other boys.

"Oh, but I think it is," Ron said, hoisting the coverlet higher and standing up. "I'm not sneaking off to the loo when I have a perfectly good bed to wank in, thank you very much. That's what men do, Harry. They wank in their beds." Ron's eyes narrowed. "You're not one of those weird religious freaks are you?" He looked over at Draco who was finally sitting up. "He's not some freak is he?"

"Don't call him that," Draco growled.

Harry rolled his eyes. He was tired of Ron's wanking, Draco's constant hovering, and he was just plain tired. "Stay out of this, Draco," Harry said, missing the way his head reared back in shock and the way anger made his lip curl in contempt. "Look Ron, you do it all of the time. You don't even try and hide it. You've no consideration for the rest of us. Other people live here too, you know."

"Yeah, and you're the only one complaining," Ron said, glancing over at Draco to make sure he wasn't going to jump in and defend Harry. Judging by the incredibly cross expression on Draco's face, Ron didn't think that would be a problem. "Why is it that you're the only one complaining, huh? I bet you don't even wank, do you? What are you, some little mummy's boy?" Ron turned his head at Blaise's snicker. "Ickle little Harry doesn't know how to make his wee-wee feel good," Ron said in a baby voice, causing Blaise to laugh harder.

"Shut it, Ron. You're the one who can't keep his hands out of his trousers. I'm surprised you make it through classes without having a go. What? Miss your binky? Is this some desperate attempt to recapture the security of your childhood?" Harry tilted his head to the side and smirked. "You know that's what they say, Ronnikins. Boys who can't keep their hands off their bits miss their mummies. Who's the mummy's boy, now?"

"Why you," Ron started, but Blaise interrupted with a loud round of clapping.

"Brilliant. Fucking brilliant!" Blaise crowed. "I was worried about you, Potter, but you're going to fit right in. Isn't he Ron? Ron? Of, for fuck's sake, Ron, get over it. And you are a bit loud, you know."

"Whatever," Ron muttered before hopping back into bed and shutting the curtains tightly, before snapping them open once more. "Just for that, I'm not teaching you the Queens Gambit Declined," he huffed before snatching the curtains closed again.

"Oooh, scary stuff, there mate," Blaise said to Harry. "I hear that Queen's defense is real killer on the chessboard." Blaise snickered at Ron's grumbling before turning his attention to Draco. "Looks like Harry doesn't need you to look out for him after all," Blaise said. Draco didn't respond. "All right, chaps, back to your beds. Excitement's over," Blaise announced before flopping onto his back and pulling his curtains closed.

Harry, still standing near Ron's bed, turned towards Draco and smiled as he trotted back to his bed, feeling very pleased with himself, not noticing the blank stare Draco gave him in return.

Harry's fingers felt fumbly and thick as he tried to knot his tie. He wasn't looking forward to the Smythwick party. What if he forgot what all of the knives were for, or called someone the wrong name, or spoke out of turn?

Despite his brief brush with independence, Harry's insecurity about the upcoming party had driven him to dutifully listen as Draco coached him in what to say, how to act, who to talk to, and everything else he could think of. Draco's tutelage had been dragging on for days. The only thing he'd had accomplished, however, was to terrify Harry. He would never remember all of the "acceptable" humorous anecdotes Draco had tried to make him memorize, or the positions and favored charities of the husbands and wives attending, respectively, or what to do with all of those tiny forks. In the end, Harry had decided that the only thing he could accomplish was being himself—even if that didn't meet with Draco's approval.

"What are you wearing?"

Startled, Harry turned at the sound of Draco's voice. He looked down at his clothing. Charcoal gray trousers, white dress shirt, silver cufflinks, and a checkered gray and lilac tie—Harry didn't see the problem. "What?" he asked.

Draco rolled his eyes and stomped over. "You can't wear that tie with those trousers and that shirt."

"Why not?"

"Because you can't."

Harry was tired. It seemed his independent streak only came out when he was tired. He huffed and turned back to his wardrobe cupboard. "That's stupid."

"Look, do you want to make a good impression, or not?"

Harry whirled around. "There is nothing wrong with this tie or these trousers. And I think I can make a good impression all on my own, thanks."

"Yes, like you did at the start of term picnic," Draco drawled.

"Shut it, Draco," Harry rasped, wondering if he'd have a bruise across his stomach in the morning, for it certainly felt as though he'd been kicked there.

Draco sighed. "Sorry. That was, uh, a bit unfair. Look, I'm just trying to help you. Look out for you."

"Then be my friend, Draco. Like me for who I am."

Draco's nose wrinkled in confusion. "Of course I'm your friend. What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "Nothing. Let's just go. I don't want to be late."

"Fine."

"Fine," Harry responded before stalking out of the room.

"Welcome, welcome," Stuart Smythwick said with a bright smile as he ushered Ron, Harry, Draco, and Blaise into his home. After a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Smythwick directed the boys to the large parlor, but not before pulling Harry aside. "Harry, I thought you might enjoy seeing some of our formal gardens. We have some striking specimens."

"I'd like that very much, sir. Thank you."

"Wonderful, wonderful. I, unfortunately, won't be able to show you myself, but my daughter, Pamela, has graciously agreed to be your guide. Ah, here she is now."

Harry was met with the sight of an attractive young woman with honeyed-brown hair and pale skin. She wore a black sleeveless dress and the largest hat—replete with feathers—that Harry had ever seen.

"Pleased to meet you, Harry," she said with a smile.

"Er, yes, pleased to meet you as well," Harry stammered, trying to look away from the huge black plumes spilling from the top of Pamela's hat.

"You seem quite taken with my hat."

Harry's cheeks colored. "It's . . . it's rather striking."

Pamela giggled. "Delicately put, Harry."

She stood as if she were waiting for Harry to do something, only Harry didn't know what. Draco, Ron, and Blaise had already left and Mr. Smythwick was greeting a new batch of guests. "Shall we?" Pamela said eventually, holding out her hand as if she meant to place it somewhere.

Harry stared at her hand before realizing that he was meant to offer his arm. "Of course," he said. He jerked forward and stuck out his arm, his stomach squirming slightly as Pamela's cold fingers lay delicately across his forearm.

"Such a gentleman," Pamela said with a giggle. "We're off, father. I'll be sure to take good care of Harry," she said with a wink, as she pulled Harry away.

Harry's tie felt very tight all of sudden as Pamela whisked him through the room and out towards the garden. He'd craned his neck looking for Draco, but didn't see him. He wished—oh how he wished—he'd paid more attention to Draco's lessons. He wished Draco were with him. There had been an odd distance between the two of them, and Harry didn't understand it. It made him rather sad.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry didn't realize that he and Pamela Smythwick were in the gardens, alone, until she stopped and turned back to him with an expectant look on her face. He looked at her and smiled, not knowing what else to do. The beaming smile he received in return made him gulp and made his nerves jangle.

"Come on, there's something I want to show you," she said as she slipped her hand into Harry's and tugged him towards a large greenhouse. "Father's been experimenting," Pamela said with a smirk as she led Harry to a far wall.

Harry stopped. His jaw hung loose and his eyes grew wide. Before him stood one of the largest collections of rare orchids he'd ever seen. Beautiful spikes of chartreuse and red surrounded him. Some were incredible small while others were fat and sprawling. It was amazing. "Holy fuck," he blurted, before realizing he was standing next to Pamela Smythwick. "I—I—I mean, I'm sorry, er, Miss Smythwick, I didn't mean--"

Pamela giggled—Harry noticed that she giggled quite a lot—and laid her hand on Harry's arm. "Stop trying to be so proper, Harry. I say fuck, too, you know. Oh, and call me Pammy. All my friends do."

Harry relaxed. "Thanks. I never know how to act at these things."

Pammy snickered. "Nor does anyone else. That's what makes these parties soooo enjoyable. Come on, let's get closer. Dad's been creating _Odontocidium_ clones. Aren't they smashing?"

"They're fantastic," Harry said as he leaned closer and fingered some of the smaller blooms.

"Tell me about them?" he asked, his head cocked to the side with boyish enthusiasm.

Pammy giggled again, thinking to herself that Father had been right—Harry Potter was definitely someone she should get to know.

"God, these things are boring," Blaise muttered as he slurped at his drink. "I'll be glad to have the real stuff at the cottage party. These soda water and fruit juice things are terrible."

Draco grunted as he scanned the room. "Have you seen Harry? I need to start making his introductions."

"Not since old man Smythwick sent him away with Pammy."

Draco's head snapped around. "What?"

"Er, yeah. Didn't you see them? Pammy and Harry wandered out into the gardens straight away." Blaise twisted around. "Don't think they've come back in yet."

Draco nodded, distracted, before finishing his drink in one long swallow. "I'm going to get another," he said, as he walked in the opposite direction of the bar.

Ron came up as Blaise watched Draco walk away. "Where's he headed?"

"For another drink," Blaise drawled.

"But the bar's that way," Ron said, pointing the other way.

"Yes. I know."

"He's been acting very strangely, have you noticed?"

"No, Ron. I completely missed that."

"Wanker. You know what I mean. He's all weird about Harry."

"Yeah. He's gone looking for him, I suspect."

"How do you figure?"

"He's headed in the direction of the gardens."

"And?"

"Pammy and Harry are out in the gardens. Looks like Draco still has a thing for Miss Smythwick."

Ron hesitated. "I suppose," he said slowly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just . . . well, have you noticed how, er, protective Draco is of Harry? He's worse than my brother Charlie."

"Yeah, I noticed. Every time we ask Harry questions about anything related to his past, Draco jumps in and answers for him. Don't think Harry likes that much, though," Blaise said with a contemplative frown. "I mean, do you remember that night that he told you off about your constant wanking?"

"Not so loud!" Ron hissed, swinging around wildly, hoping no one heard.

"Well, do you?"

"Yeah, Blaise. It's a bit hard to forget. I was traumatized, I hope you know. One minute I'm . . . well, you know, and the next some deranged elf-boy is staring at my bits and screaming at me."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Elf-boy? And, really, Ron, I thought you were over that."

"He's small and has strange ears. And I _am_ over it. I taught him the Queen's Gambit Declined, didn't I? I don't go around sharing that with just anyone, you know. He's tougher than he looks, that's for sure. I was afraid we had another Nervous Neville on our hands, but Harry's a good sort. He's quite funny, did you know? Wicked sharp sense of humor. Not a bad chess player either, with my help, of course."

Blaise sighed in irritation. "Can we get back to the matter at hand? As I was saying, do you remember that Harry told Draco to stay out of it? Draco looked furious."

"Huh," Ron said in response. "Not surprising, really. Harry's a tough kid. And a little bit of Draco goes a long way. But there is the other thing."

"What other thing," Blaise asked.

"Haven't you noticed how much Harry looks like Jordan?"

"Oh, Christ, not that again."

"I'm serious. It's like he's her brother, or something."

"They're not related, Ron."

"Yeah, I know. But, don't you think it's odd that Draco's girlfriend looks exactly like his childhood friend? And now, apparently, he's all hot and bothered that Harry and Pammy are in the gardens. Alone."

Blaise's eyes narrowed. "Just what are implying, Weasley?"

Ron held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not implying anything. I'm just saying that there's more going on here than an over-protective friend. Maybe there's something in Harry's past that both of them are trying to keep secret—something really horrible or traumatic, or something."

Blaise snorted. "Right. You think Draco can keep a secret?"

Ron laughed. "You're right. Didn't think about that. I don't know. There's just something odd there."

Blaise nodded. "Odd, yes. But let's not speculate about things that we shouldn't speculate about."

Ron's eyes drifted up and to the right as he tried to untangle that. "Er, fine. Yeah. Course. All right, back to the small talk. Dad would be so proud," he said as he walked away and moved to the next conversation.

Blaise snickered, but found himself turning back to the gardens, wondering what was going on.

"There you are. Thought you'd gotten lost," Draco said, his eyes glittering dangerously at the sight of Pammy Smythwick clinging to Harry's arm.

"Draco! Have you seen the greenhouse? It's amazing," Harry gushed, his eyes sparkling. "Mr. Smythwick is cloning orchids. Really, really rare orchids. Did you know? Have you seen?"

Draco smiled, happy to see Harry so excited, but it vanished when Pammy giggled. He was quite unsettled at seeing Pammy and Harry canoodling in the gardens, but he didn't understand why. Did he really want Pammy Smythwick after all? Or, perhaps, was this just another way in which Draco and Harry were too different? He liked plants just fine, but his eyes didn't sparkle over the prospect of cloned orchids. It hurt. Everyday it felt like his friend was slipping away, and Draco didn't know what to do to hold onto him.

"Isn't he adorable, Draco?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry said, bristling at yet another remark about his diminutive stature.

"Oh, calm down, darling. I just mean it's so refreshing to see someone excited about Dad's work—other than the family, I mean," Pammy said, as she fluttered her eyelashes in Harry's direction.

"Er," Harry said, wondering if one of the feathers had gotten in Pammy's eyes. Her eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to expel some foreign object. He wasn't entirely sure how to handle such a situation. Should he knock the feathers out of the way? Should he ask her about it? He was saved from having to do much of anything, because Draco—as Draco often did—took over the conversation.

"Yes, well you've had your fun, Pammy. Time to release the claws. It's really quite rude to cling to a guest for so long, you know, especially when the poor chap hasn't even had a chance to get a drink. Honestly, those ridiculous hats are cutting off the circulation to your brain," Draco snapped.

"Oh yes, I'd forgotten. Draco Malfoy, paragon of virtue," Pammy volleyed back.

"It's okay, really. I really wanted to see the gardens, Draco. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine for keeping Pammy for so long. I'm sure she was just indulging me," Harry said, desperate to avoid an argument. He hated when people fought—especially if he was in the middle somehow. It made his stomach clench and twist and roil unpleasantly.

"You don't have to apologize," Draco said to Harry before turning back to Pammy. "I'll take over from here, make sure Harry is introduced to the right sorts, since you obviously have no inclination to do it for him. Of course, what you consider the 'right sort' wouldn't much help to Harry tonight, now would it?"

"How dare you," Pammy screeched as her fingernails dug into Harry's arm.

Harry yelped and shook his arm free. Pammy and Draco turned back to him, surprised. "Yes, well, I think I can make my way around the party myself. Excuse me," he said before darting off, leaving Pammy and Draco standing in the gardens.

Draco was dumbfounded. How could Harry choose to go it alone rather than let Draco help him? What had happened to the gypsy kings? To their oath sworn in the stables before school started? Draco turned to look at Pammy, who was running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip in contemplation.

"I think you've scared him off," she said. "No matter. I'm sure I can capture his attention at the cottage party."

Draco knew precisely the kind of attention Pammy wanted to capture at that particular party. "Leave him alone, Pammy. He's not your type."

Pammy snorted. "I think he's exactly my type. Handsome, intelligent, dashing, and bashful—I'd say he's quite perfect." She cocked her head to the side. "Looks like you've a bit of competition, Draco," she said before sauntering back to the party.

"What's eating you?" Blaise asked as he tried to stay in slow step with Draco, who seemed determined to stay as far behind Harry and Ron as possible. The party was over and the boys were making their way back to Wolsford's main entrance.

"Nothing," Draco said.

"Nothing. Right. My eyesight must be fading. Should I try Harry's glasses?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut it."

Blaise sighed and cast about for something to say. "Pammy seemed quite taken with Harry, did you notice?" Draco didn't say anything in response, so Blaise continued. "I think she fancies him some sort of mysterious rebel, what with the fact no one knows anything about his past."

"I know everything about his past," Draco said in a clipped voice.

"Okay . . . well, the rest of us don't, Draco, and every time we try and ask Potter a question about something, you jump in and answer for him. What is he hiding? And why are you hiding it for him? What, did he burn down his last school, or something?" Blaise asked with a chuckle. When Draco didn't respond, Blaise got a bit a worried. "Hey, seriously, he didn't burn down his school, did he?"

"Of course not, you idiot."

"What crawled up your arse? You've been a pill all night."

Draco stopped walking and faced Blaise. "Why the sudden interest in Harry? He your new best mate, or something?"

"You're acting like a lunatic! What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Nothing's wrong. Just fucking leave it!"

"Whatever."

They trudged silently for a few moments, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet the only sound.

"How's the party shaping up?" Draco asked, his tone conciliatory.

"Working on the guest list. Obviously, we'll invite Ron and Ha--, well you know."

"You can say his name, you know."

"Sure about that mate?"

Draco sighed. "Yeah, I'm sure. Who else are we inviting?"

"The old crowd, of course. Anyone new you think should make the cut?"

"Not especially."

"We could always invite Nervous Neville," Blaise said with a titter of laughter, not understanding why that seemed to make Draco scowl again.

"Harry'd like that. He and Longbottom have become fast friends," he said with a sneer.

"Seriously? We need to sit him down and have a frank chat about social hierarchy at Wolsford. He'll be doomed if he's not careful."

"Yeah, well, he seemed to do just fine tonight, didn't he?" Draco said, the bitterness evident in his voice.

"Yeah. I thought Pammy was going to try and take him right then. She's coming to the party, you know."

"Shut it about Pammy! I don't want to hear anything more about that cow."

Blaise shot Draco a strange glance. It was hard to keep up with the emotional tilt-o-whirl Draco seemed stuck on. "What has gotten into you about Pammy Smythwick? You're acting like you're jealous. You had your chance with her, you know."

"Shut it!" Draco growled before stomping away, leaving Blaise to follow alone, shaking his head in bewilderment. Ron was right. There was something odd going on.

Draco stomped along the gravel walk, listening to Ron and Harry laugh about something or other. _That should be me. He should be laughing with me_, Draco thought to himself. It was as if he'd been invisible all night. Well, invisible all week, truth be told. It wasn't going at all the way Draco imagined. The party had been a disaster, at least Draco thought. Harry had been whisked away the second they'd walked through the door. Harry hadn't even tried to find him. Of course with Pammy draped across his arm, why would he concern himself with Draco? He certainly hadn't thought of Draco as he barreled through the house, making his own introductions, defying the delicate, unspoken protocol. He hadn't thought of Draco as he made all sorts of plans for dinners and study groups that didn't include him. He'd not turned to Draco, or sought Draco's opinion, the entire night. It _hurt_, but Draco didn't understand why. He wanted to, and he wanted Harry to explain it to him, though he didn't know how to ask. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" Draco whispered to himself as he wrapped his arms around himself and continued walking, alone, through the cold night.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked as Harry packed up his satchel. Two weeks had passed since the Smythwick party—two weeks of intermittent arguments and spurts of silent treatment. It was a week before the cottage party, and Draco was desperate to have his friend, his Harry, back.

Harry rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of Draco always wanting to know where he was going, what he was doing, who he was with. "Botany study group," Harry said as he cast about for his botany notes. "Main Library. Don't wait up."

"But I thought we could study Literature and then start going over your riding lesson schedule."

Harry sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know you wanted to do those things and I've already committed to this."

"Well, I didn't know you had formed yet another study group," Draco said hotly.

"You're not serious?" Harry asked, wondering why Draco was getting so upset. "You're not taking Botany. Why would I tell you about the study group?"

"Because perhaps I've made other plans for us," Draco snapped.

"Well, perhaps you should let me know about these plans before you simply decide things for me. I'm perfectly capable of making decisions, you know."

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to regain some semblance of control. "Of course," he said eventually. "Tonight's not a good night in any event. Blaise still needs my help with the party preparations for this weekend. Why don't we get an early start on riding on Saturday morning?"

Harry shifted from foot to foot. "Er, about Saturday," he began.

"What, another fucking study group?"

"No," Harry sneered. "Thomas Wright invited me and Neville to lunch in his family's formal gardens."

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"I wasn't aware I had to clear my schedule through you, Draco, and, not that it matters, but Thomas just invited us earlier today."

"Well, you'll have to tell him you can't attend, is all," Draco said with a sniff.

"The hell I will, Draco. You don't own me, you know. I'm not some little doll that you toss around at will. I can make my own friends and do my own things. I don't need you right there every single moment of the day smothering me!"

"You ungrateful sod! I've done nothing by try and help you here."

"And I'm grateful, Draco. Truly. But I'm capable of answering questions people have about my past. I'm capable of carrying on a conversation with Pammy Smythwick without your intervention, and I'm damn well capable of deciding with whom I want to study or visit and when I want to do so. I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to live my life for me!"

"Oh, yes. Good old Pammy Smythwick. I wondered when she'd make an appearance in this conversation."

"What is your fucking problem with Pammy Smythwick?"

"You mean besides the fact that she's uncultured cow?"

"Damn it Draco! I thought this was over."

"I thought so to, but you seem incapable of not thinking about Pammy."

"She's my friend, Draco. Would you like it if I stopped thinking about you?"

Draco's gaze was hard and Harry couldn't figure out for the life of him what was going on in Draco's crazy brain. Things had been all right until the night of Smythwick's start of term party, but had spiraled out of control from there. Harry didn't understand why Draco cared if Pammy Smythwick was his friend. Despite her odd choice in hats, she had a sharp wit, and, like her father and brother, a keen interest in botany. Harry was thrilled to have another friend. Why couldn't Draco be thrilled for him? After all, it wasn't as if Harry was interested in her. He'd made the mistake of asking Draco if he liked Pammy, if that was why he was being so odd about her. Draco had called her an uncultured cow who was as easy as they came. That had resulted in a spectacular argument between the pair after which they hadn't spoken for two days.

Harry's thoughts were brought back to the present at the sound of ripping paper. "What are you doing?"

"You don't want to be late for your little study group," Draco said as he continued to rip out sheets of paper from his journal.

"Why are you ripping out those pages?"

"These?" Draco replied, holding up bits of paper. "Since you obviously don't need me to help you learn to ride, and you don't seem to have the time for me to teach you, there's no reason for this schedule, then," he said as he tore the remaining bits of paper into even smaller pieces, tossing them in a nearby rubbish bin. "Maybe Thomas Wright can teach you to ride. Better yet, perhaps Pammy can. I certainly don't want the job anymore," he said archly as he turned his attention back to his Literature notes.

Harry stared at the rubbish bin for several moments, blinking back the hurt and the anger he felt. Draco knew—_he knew_—how much Harry wanted to learn to ride. More importantly, it was something that they were going to do together. But Draco had wrecked everything.

"Why would you do that?" Harry whispered.

Draco sniffed. "I've decided not to waste my time, is all. I know when to cut my losses. Oh, and by the way, just a little bit of advice. I've had Pammy Smythwick and so has everyone else. She has no standards, you know. She'd fuck a wall if she could."

Harry gasped—it was as if the breath had been squeezed from him in one short, vicious twist. "Why would you say that? To me?" he asked. Draco didn't respond. Harry pushed down the hurt as far as he could, but he couldn't stop the words as the fell from his lips. "You're nothing more than a miserable, spoilt child. I can't imagine why I ever thought I wanted to be friends with you. Have a nice fucking life," he said before leaving, wondering why he put himself through this time and time again.

Draco watched Harry go, wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong. All he wanted from Harry was a little bit of consideration. Was that too much to ask? He was Harry's best friend. Not Nervous Neville, or Thomas Wright, or, or Pammy Smythwick. God, he hated her! He knew she just saw Harry as her latest conquest. She'd get what she wanted and hurt him, leaving Draco to pick up the pieces when she was done with him. Draco knew how girls like her operated, why couldn't Harry? Or, more importantly, why wouldn't he listen to what Draco was trying to tell him? Draco looked at the rubbish bin, resisting the urge to gather all the tiny pieces of the riding schedule he'd made and tape them back together. "Fuck," he said under his breath, wondering what to do now.


	19. In Over My Head

Chapter 19: In Over My Head 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note:Thank you, thank you to Separatrix and snottygrrl for early beta assistance on this chapter and to Sansa for reviewing this for me after my fifth rewrite.

For the fifth time, Harry tried to flatten his hair. It was, of course, a lost cause. He shot a glance at Draco who was polishing his shoes across the room. Ignoring him. Harry sighed as he smoothed his jeans and brushed invisible lint from his black cashmere jumper. The jeans felt too tight, as did the jumper really, but Blaise had assured him that everything fit properly. However, Blaise had also told him to stop trying to flatten his hair and, instead, ruffle it further, because "girls go wild for the rebel look," making Harry rather dubious about his fashion advice.

"Are we ready to go?" Blaise asked as he strolled into the room.

"Er," Harry said, reconsidering his decision to go.

"Stop being such a baby," Draco snapped. "Let's get out of here," Draco said to Blaise, brushing past Harry as if he didn't exist.

Harry wanted to push, or kick, or scream at Draco as he stomped out of the room. But Blaise was staring at him, as if daring him to do any of those things. It would have been easier if Harry could simply forget Draco, pretend he didn't exist, but Harry found he couldn't do that. Not again. He cared for Draco. He missed his friend.

"Still in a snit, I see," Blaise said as he studied his fingernails. "Whatever you did, you pissed him right off."

"I didn't do a damn thing," Harry said as he whirled around. "Draco Malfoy is a spoiled brat and can sod off for all I care," Harry called out, hoping Draco had heard him.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Listen, we're leaving in five minutes. If you're not downstairs by then, you're stuck," he said as he pushed off from the wall. "You should come, though. The best revenge is having a good time," Blaise said with a wink before leaving.

"Right," Harry said to his reflection. "Because I'll be able to have a good time at a party where I'll feel self-conscious, surrounded by people I don't know, but who already know each other, and wondering all night why in the hell my best friend is acting like a sodding git."

Blaise didn't make it very far before he was pulled into a small alcove by Draco. "Why Draco, I had no idea you felt this way about me," he teased with a flutter of his lashes.

"Stop being stupid," Draco spat. "Look, I've already had a talk with Ron, now it's your turn."

"Okay . . . is this the one where you tell me about how boys and girls can play special games but should only do so while wearing their special protective gloves? Need practice before you have to have the talk with ickle little Harry?"

"Fuck you, Zabini, I'm being serious."

"Really? It's so hard to tell with you. Your older brother routine with Harry the last few weeks has been a bit over the top and, frankly, a bit disturbing. And now you're not talking to each other. What's got your knickers in such a twist, anyway?"

Draco huffed. "That's none of your business."

"Of course not," Blaise muttered. "So what is it? What do you want?"

Draco tugged at his sleeve, a nervous gesture he hardly ever resorted to. Blaise noticed it right away. "Is everything okay? Seriously, Draco, what's going on?'

Draco dropped his hands and took a deep breath before looking up. "Promise you'll look out for Harry tonight."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll look out for Harry. Keep him from getting too arseholed. Keep Pammy or any of those other girls away from him. That sort of thing."

Blaise blinked, and blinked some more. "I'm sorry, but I thought I just heard you ask me to take Harry to a party, but prevent him from having any fun at the party. Getting drunk and laid is what we do at these things, Draco. And Pammy's quite taken with our Harry Potter. Why deny her carnal delights? You certainly didn't turn her down when she picked you. Care to tell me why he's a special case? Or is it that you don't want to see Pammy with anyone else?" Blaise asked with a sly smile.

"Harry's not like that," Draco blurted.

Blaise's eyes narrowed. He hadn't missed the fact that Draco wasn't answering his questions. "And just what is Harry like, Draco?"

"I just mean. Look, he's lived a really, uh, sheltered life. He's never been to a party like this and you know those she-sharks will gobble him up if they can. I want—look, I'm just asking you to look out for him, that's all. I just don't want to see anything bad happen to him."

Blaise laughed. "And getting a good buzz and kissing girls are bad things?"

"That's not what I said. And you know as well as I do that's not all Pammy's interested in. Just watch out for him, all right? Keep him from getting into too much trouble. That's all I ask."

Blaise shook his head. A million questions were flying through his mind, but he knew Draco wouldn't answer any of them. "Why us? Why not you?"

"I thought it obvious that Harry and I were having a disagreement at the moment."

"Yeah, Draco, we noticed. It's a bit hard not to notice when there are only four of us living together and two of the four pretend each other don't exist."

"Sorry about that," Draco said, beginning to fiddle with his sleeve again. "It's complicated."

Blaise snorted. "Complicated doesn't even begin to describe what's going on here. No offense, Draco, but if you're too upset to talk with him, why do you care what happens to him?"

"Look, just because we're not talking doesn't mean I want anything bad to happen to him. What's with all the questions, anyway? Are you going to do as I ask or not?" Draco demanded.

"Yeah, sure," Blaise said, confused by Draco's reactions.

"Well then, we're perfectly clear, aren't we?" Draco asked before sauntering from the alcove, leaving an incredulous Blaise behind.

"You okay?"

Blaise swung around. Harry was there, staring at him with an odd expression while simultaneously pulling at his jumper as if repeated pinching of the fabric would make it enlarge a size or two.

"Stop that," Blaise said automatically. "You'll make it pucker. Trust me, not a good look, mate."

Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair, making it poke in every direction. "I won't know anyone."

"Lie. You'll know me, Ron, and Draco."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. This isn't—I've never—Look, this is a bad idea. I'm just going to go back. I've got some studying and stuff to do."

Blaise studied Harry and thought back to what Draco had said. Decision made, he walked over to Harry before he could get away and slung his arm around his shoulders. "Listen carefully. Hardest lesson you'll learn. We're going to a party. Parties are fun. You must have fun. If you're not having fun, it will be my duty to ensure that you have fun. There will be drinking, and dancing, and tipsy girls at this party. Do you know what's best about tipsy girls?"

Harry shook his head.

"They like to kiss."

"Oh," Harry said softly as he pulled at his jumper.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Relax, Potter. They won't suck out your soul or anything."

Harry bit his lip and nodded. "Right. So. Party. Fun. Drinking—er, I don't drink really. Well, ever, actually. I mean, I haven't. Not yet, I mean."

Blaise chuckled. "Ah, such a sweet little lamb. Don't worry, Harry, we'll get you sorted out tonight. You'll have fun. Promise. Okay?"

Harry blew out a long breath. "Yeah, okay."

Blaise squeezed his shoulder and let go. "That's what I like to hear. Come on, now. Let's get a move on—my brother Kevin is the antsy sort. Ready to go, I'm sure. Don't worry, Potter. We'll take care of you."

Harry nodded again and wondered just what he'd gotten himself into.

As Harry lolled on the couch and greeted passers-by with a crooked grin, he still wondered what he'd gotten himself into, but found he didn't particularly care at the moment. He felt like he was drifting in a warm pool of water, the small waves gently lapping at the edges of his mind. He dragged his fingers through the soft channels of the chenille upholstery, marveling at the way it made his arms feel tingly. He felt relaxed, and everything seemed a bit funny.

He'd been annoyed when Blaise had forced him out his hiding corner and thrust a cold bottle into his hand an hour or so before. The annoyance seemed silly now.

"It'll help," Blaise had said.

"With what?" Harry had replied.

"You're too tense. Can't have fun when you're tense. And I've got to say, the smallish grim reaper thing you've got going on, what with huddling in the shadows, scowling, and staring at everyone, isn't helping you or me. So drink up, Potter. I promised you a night of fun, and there's nothing quite like liquid courage."

Harry finished that bottle. And then he'd had another. And after that, the other guests didn't seem nearly as frightening or intimidating. He'd strayed from his corner and chatted with them. He'd even smiled at some of the Collenton girls when Pammy had waved in his direction.

Now, he was splayed on the couch, observing the mad things everyone else was doing, giggling about chenille. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt comfortable.

And then he saw Draco standing in the far corner of the room, his arm around some twiggy brunette. A sharp ping in Harry's gut distracted him from his happiness. He'd successfully avoided Draco thus far—hoping that Draco would seek him out and talk to him—but it seemed the only thing Draco was interested in was chatting up some silly girl. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away. He watched as Draco leaned in and kissed her. Harry's mouth went dry and he looked away. Draco, it seemed, didn't have a care in the world.

"Hiya, Harry!" Ron said as he and Blaise approached. Both were pleasantly ripped, if their bloodshot eyes, slurred speech, and sniggering were anything to go by.

"Hey, Ron, Blaise," Harry said, feeling as though the room moved a bit as he stood.

"Having a good time?" Blaise asked.

"Yeah," he said with a lazy grin. "Great time."

"Good. Here," Ron said as he held out a cup of amber colored liquid to Harry, nearly sloshing it all over him in the process. "Blaise said that. . . that . . . wait . . . what did you say?"

Blaise laughed and doubled over. "I said that—that—that . . wait, what did I say? Oh! I mem . . . rem . . er, rememberer now. I said that Harry was only having two lagers tonight."

"So," Ron picked up, "we brought you some juice to drink instead. You looked sad a minute ago, Harry. Can't be sad at the cottage party. Time for happy juice!"

Harry took the cup and sniffed warily. It smelled like apple juice. "Apple juice?" he asked.

"Yeah. Juice. Apple juice, and soda and . . . happy juice," Ron said. "Only, you gotta . . . you gotta drink it fast."

"Why?" Harry asked, still sniffing the contents of the cup.

"Why? Why? Cause it's tradition. A toast between mates," Ron said as he brandished his own lager.

"Oh," Harry said, feeling a bit out of sorts. "Should we get Draco, then?"

"No!" Blaise cried, before shushing Ron while Ron shushed him. "No," Blaise whispered. He toddled forward and cupped his hand over Harry's ear. "He's busy," Blaise whispered solemnly.

Harry looked over and saw Draco and the brunette girl were still kissing. "Yeah, I suppose so," he said with a frown.

"Promsmed . . . er, I promised him I'd take care of you," Blaise said in Harry's ear, obviously thinking he was whispering. "And you need a drink."

"You promised what?" Harry asked, trying to parse through what Blaise had said.

"Shh!" Blaise admonished before holding up his drink. "Come on then. It's tradition."

"Fine," Harry said raising his cup, his attention split between Draco and the toast. "To mates," Harry said, as he clinked his plastic cup against the necks of Ron and Blaise's lager bottles.

"To mates!" they cried as they knocked back the rest of their lager and watched with conspiratorial glee as Harry gulped his "juice."

Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and frowned. "It burned my throat," he rasped.

Ron and Blaise exchanged glances. "Er, yeah. It's the soda water."

Harry, distracted by Draco leading the brunette to another room, just nodded his head.

"How 'bout I get you some more?" Ron asked as he took the cup from Harry's hand and scurried away.

Harry turned back to Blaise and the room lurched a bit around him. "Whoa," he said, falling back into the couch.

"The lager getting to you, mate?" Blaise asked with a smile.

"Yeah. I think so," Harry said, feeling a pleasant wave of dizziness wash over him. He smacked his lips, which felt a bit numb. His throat felt parched, too.

"Thirsty?" Ron asked, returning.

Harry nodded and reached out for the juice. He gulped it down again, noticing that it hardly burned this time. Shrugging, he held out his cup for more.

Ron and Blaise exchanged glances. "Er, you might want to slow down on the juice, mate."

"Why?" Harry said, wondering why things sounded so far away. "It's just juice and soda, yeah?"

"Sure," Blaise chirped as he and Ron shushed each other and stumbled away, leaving a confused and disoriented Harry on the couch.

It seemed to Harry that someone had put a large wall of wavy glass between him and everyone else. Everything he saw—everything he heard—had a distorted quality to it. He'd have gotten up and complained if he thought he could. As it was, Harry was content to sprawl on the couch, his eyes half-closed. He'd had a few more cups of "happy juice," wondering why the lager seemed to be affecting him so much. After a while, he stopped caring and just enjoyed the cozy chenille couch.

And then he felt soft hands squeezing his arms. Someone had managed to get behind the glass. He rolled his head over to the side—an act that seemed to take an incredible amount of effort—and opened his eyes.

"Hello Harry," Pammy said with a giggle.

Harry's eyes fluttered closed for a second. "'lo Pammy," he slurred, wondering why it was so hard to make the words he wanted to say come out. He looked her over with glassy, over-bright eyes. "Where's your hat?" he asked with a frown. "You're not wearing a hat." Harry let his head fall to the back of the couch. "Pammy always wears hats. Hats of doom," he giggled and murmured to himself.

Pammy curled into his side and snaked her arm around his shoulders. "No hats tonight, Harry," she whispered in his ear. "They might get in the way."

Harry tried to lift his head and open his eyes. He found it impossible to do both. He settled for opening his eyes. "Get in the way of what?" he asked.

"This," Pammy said, as she leaned forward and hovered for a second. Harry went cross-eyed staring at her, wondering what she was doing. Her lips began to pucker as she tilted her head. Harry was assaulted with the cloying smell of over-ripe gardenias. He opened his mouth to cough, but was silenced as cold, plump lips pressed against his. The press was soft and chaste and tasted of cherries. It was over before it began.

She pulled back and gave Harry a calculating look. Harry stared back, his lips caught in a delayed pucker as he caught up to the realization that he'd just been kissed—for the first time ever. Pammy Smythwick had kissed him. Harry was thoroughly unimpressed.

"Did you like that Harry?" Pammy whispered.

"Yeah, sure," Harry said, wondering why he felt so nonchalant about the whole affair. It hadn't felt at all like he'd thought it would. There were no sparks or fireworks or any other feelings that people used to describe first kisses. It was just a press of lips—cold, plump, and sticky lips. "What . . . what was that for?" he slurred.

Pammy shrugged. "I felt like kissing you, so I did. Don't you ever do things just because you feel like doing them, Harry?"

"Er--"

"Things like this?" Pammy asked as she leaned in and kissed him again, only this time with a little nibble to his bottom lip, inviting him to open his mouth.

Harry pulled back, quite puzzled. "You bit me. Why'd you bite me?" he asked, as he looked around, hoping to spot Blaise, or, more importantly, Draco. He was in over his head. He had no idea what he was doing. Independence wasn't feeling quite as smashing just then.

Pammy giggled. "I didn't bite you. I nibbled. That's what people do when they kiss. Surely you know that?" she asked with an arched brow.

"Well . . . I mean . . . erm, what?" Harry stammered.

Pammy rolled her eyes and got straight to the point. "I like you, Harry. Don't you like me? Even just a little?"

"Sure," Harry said. "My friend. Like you. Esp . . espepcial . . . especially without the hats," he said with a laugh, thinking himself terribly clever. Perhaps he'd overreacted. He could handle Pammy Smythwick.

"You're very cute, Harry. Did you know that?" Pammy asked as she cuddled closer to him and rubbed her hand across his stomach.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. It was weird to have someone so close and touching him that way—a pleasant way. He focused on the soft hand grazing across the front of his jumper, moving back and forth, back and forth. A strange fluttering feeling bubbled up and made him squirm a bit and make strange choking sounds.

Pammy leaned in and kissed the side of Harry's neck. It tickled and Harry tried to move away. "Yes, very, very cute. You know all the girls here think so. But I'm the only one you like, isn't that right?" she asked as her hand dipped lower and cupped Harry's cock.

"Holy fuck!" Harry exclaimed, nearly jumping off the couch. It was like every nerve ending in his body had come alive. He'd never felt anything quite like that. No one had ever touched him there. Harry knew then he couldn't handle Pammy Smythwick—she moved too fast and knew what to do to make him feel like it was both the hottest and coldest day on earth. He looked up again—hoping to see Draco. He wasn't there. Harry didn't know what to do, and both his brain and legs—which he noticed to his horror were spreading a bit to give Pammy better access—weren't at all interested in his confusion or distress. When she squeezed again, Harry whimpered and tossed his head back. He gave in.

Pammy giggled. "You like that, do you?"

Harry "hmmed" in response. "No one's ever touched me like that before," he admitted, his concentration, along with the rest of him, focusing on his hardening cock.

"I knew it. I knew you were a virgin. None of the other girls believed me. And, to think, I've got you all to myself," she said in a sing-song voice as her hand rubbed and squeezed in some frustrating rhythm that Harry couldn't puzzle out.

Harry gasped out a garbled tangle of sound as he resisted the urge to cover her hand with his and make her go faster. So what if he was in over his head? Whatever Pammy was doing felt great, and nothing bad could possible come from something that felt that good.

"I think it's time you had a lesson, don't you, Harry? Hmm? Would you like a lesson?"

Harry wished—desperately wished—Pammy would shut up. Her talking and giggling and cherry flavored lipgloss and fetid gardenia perfume were getting in the way of the most incredible feeling he'd ever experienced. "What?" he said eventually when asked, again, if he wanted a lesson of some sort. "We're at a party. Don't have my journals," he muttered, willing Pammy to squeeze just a little harder and a hell of a lot faster.

"That's okay. You don't need your books for this lesson. Come on. Let's go somewhere a little more private," she said as she stood and tugged Harry from the couch.

Harry mewed and felt very cross that her hand had been taken away. Pammy must have understood, because she giggled and promised that Harry would like what she was going to teach him much, much better. So Harry staggered from the couch and followed Pammy dumbly, his brain fogged with lust and alcohol, not paying attention to where he was going.

"Here we are," Pammy said as she guided Harry to a small bed and shut the door behind her. She watched as Harry sprawled on the bed. She shook her head and snickered. She suspected that Blaise and Ron had given Harry the twins' happy juice to drink—a potent combination of soda water, apple juice, and grain alcohol. He was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning, but she was going to enjoy him while she could. There was nothing quite so wonderful as a cute and compliant boy. She sauntered over and undid his belt and trouser buttons.

"What . . . what are you doing?" Harry slurred as he tried to sit up. The kissing and the touching and walking were making him feel all funny. His mind was all fuzzy and the lazy dizziness from before seemed more pronounced.

Pammy pushed him back gently and shushed him. "I promise you're going to like this. You liked it when I was touching you, didn't you?" she asked as she squeezed his cock in reminder.

Harry's eyes rolled back and he moaned. "Oh, fuck," he whispered under his breath, his body becoming slack.

" I thought so," Pammy said, as she began pulling Harry's trousers down.

Draco was having a miserable time. Even his pleasant buzz couldn't break him out of his funk. He was still angry with Harry. How dare he shove him aside once they got to school? Draco should always come first, didn't Harry know that? Draco put him first. He purposefully arranged his study schedule around teaching Harry to ride. He'd even made introductions for Harry—made it clear that Harry was his friend and, as such, deserved respect and deference. And what had Harry done? Gone behind his back and joined study groups, accepted invitations for engagements that Draco wasn't invited to, and made friends that Draco didn't know. He acted as if he didn't give a toss about Draco. He growled and shook his head. He didn't want to think about Harry anymore. Thinking about Harry hurt. Besides, Harry wasn't his responsibility that night.

He swiped another lager from the kitchen and scanned the crowd. The brunette had already moved on, he saw. He'd tried chatting her up, had even gone so far as to kiss her a little, but—try as he might—he just couldn't get himself in the mood. Good riddance, he thought to himself. He took a long pull and looked for someone else that might catch his fancy. That was when he noticed Harry was nowhere to be seen. '_So much for not thinking about Harry_,' he thought, as he swore under his breath and looked for Blaise.

"Blaise," Draco said when he found his friend.

"Wha?' Blaise said as he listed to the side, attempting to turn around. "Draco," he said overloud and with a ridiculous smile on his face. "Draco, Draco, Draco . . . my bestest friend," he crowed as he pulled Draco into a bear hug, ignoring his indelicate squawk.

"Let me go! God, you smell like you've bathed in ale," Draco said as he pulled himself out of Blaise's grasp. "Where's Harry? I thought I told you to keep an eye on him."

Blaise made a big show of swinging around, looking for Harry, calling for him as if he were a wayward kitten. "Nope. Don't see Harry anywhere."

Draco growled in frustration. "I know that, you idiot. I asked you where he was. Where's Harry?"

Blaise looked around again. "Dunno."

"For the love of fucking Christ," Draco swore under his breath. "When did you last see him?"

Blaise put down his drink so that he could think. He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face in deep concentration. "Pammy!" he said finally. Blaise leaned forward, catching Draco by the shoulders for support. "She was kissing him," he said with a conspiratorial giggle.

Hot, undefined anger roiled through Draco. "Damn it, Blaise. How could you let that little trollop anywhere near Harry?"

"Harry didn't seem to mind, mate," Blaise said, almost appearing sober at that moment. "What do you care, anyway? It's not like you're interested in her. Are you?"

"Fuck you," Draco spat as he turned on his heel, insistent on finding Pammy and Harry before things went too far.

It didn't take long to find them. The cottage wasn't that large and there weren't too many places they could go. Draco had a fair idea what Pammy meant to do, but that still didn't prepare him for the shock and rage he felt as he walked into a small bedroom and found Harry sprawled on a bed, drunk out of his mind, and Pammy poised to give him a blow job.

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco screamed as he charged over to Pammy and pushed her out of the way.

"What's your problem, Malfoy?" Pammy spat, no longer the giggling school girl. "You'll have the room soon enough. Give the rest of us a chance," she said as she got back up.

"Don't even think about it," Draco snarled, getting in between her and Harry.

Harry was not feeling well at all. His stomach was making strange gurgling sounds, his heart was pounding, and the dizziness was far worse than before. And time seemed to be playing funny tricks, as well. One second Pammy was talking to him on the couch (not caring about his inability to respond coherently) and the next he was laying on a bed in a room he didn't recognize. One second he was wearing all of his clothes; the next, he wasn't. He had no idea what Pammy was doing, or what was happening. Every time the fog in his mind lifted enough for him to ask, Pammy distracted him with delicate touches and pulls. Reduced to whimpers and mews, lacking rational thought, Harry just let things happen.

There were loud voices that made his head hurt. Pammy had stopped touching him—stopped making him feel good. Why wasn't Pammy making him feel good? She was talking to someone else. It sounded like Draco. Draco! Draco would know what to do. He'd tell Harry if he was doing this wrong, or whether he needed to be doing something else, or why he was no longer wearing shoes, trousers, or pants. Why was Draco there? Did he want Pammy to touch him too? Was he mad that she was touching Harry?

Harry tried to sit up and ask, but the world—which had been spinning somewhat pleasantly only moments before—became a vicious herky-jerky that made Harry want to sick-up. He tried to roll into a fetal position, hoping that would make him feel better, but he only succeeded in twisting the upper-half of his body to one side. He groaned. All he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep. "Draco? Pammy?" he called, but neither paid attention to him.

"Why, Draco," Pammy said with a flutter of her eyelashes, "I didn't know you were still interested. Let me take care of Harry here and then we can have a go. He'll be quick, I'm sure," she said with a giggle.

Draco was furious. "You cheap little trollop! Taking advantage of Harry and then thinking I'd let you touch me? What do you take me for?"

"A horny fifteen-year-old boy who won't see another girl until fall holiday," Pammy said matter-of-factly. "Besides, Draco, last time I checked, Harry didn't need a minder."

"Harry's drunk, Pammy. And he's never done anything like this."

"I know! Poor thing. Can you imagine, Draco? Fifteen and a virgin? Don't worry, I'll set him to rights," she said as she, again, made a move to get back into position.

"The hell you will," Draco bellowed, pushing Pammy away.

The loud voices hurt Harry's ears. "Ow," he cried as he again tried to shift into a more comfortable position. This time, though, he rolled to the wrong side and fell off of the bed with a solid thump. "Fuck," he blurted, clutching at his head and wondering, again, where his pants and trousers were. Nothing else about the surreal situation he was in struck him—the only mystery worthy of his focus was his missing pants and trousers. Where on earth had they gone?

Draco and Pammy turned at the sound of Harry falling from the bed. Draco ran over. "Get out," he called over his shoulder to Pammy. "Tell Blaise and Ron I want to see them. Now."

Pammy rolled her eyes and sighed. "Freak," she muttered under her breath before straightening her skirt, smoothing her hair, and walking out of the room as if she'd just had the best sex of her life.

Draco didn't pay attention to Pammy, he was focused on Harry. "Harry? Harry? Can you hear me?" he asked.

"Draco?" Harry mewed pitifully. "Hurts. Don't have pants. I . . . I can't feel my lips. Why don't I have pants?" he asked.

Draco sighed and pulled Harry into a more comfortable position. "Fucking Christ, Harry. What am I going to do with you?"

"Find m'pants?" Harry asked, his eyes finally open and his expression dazed.

"Damn it," Draco swore. "Lie down and pull up your legs." Harry complied and Draco began to pull up Harry's pants and trousers, both of which were wound round Harry's ankles and the likely reason he'd fallen off the bed.

Draco's eyes drifted down and noticed that Harry was still half-hard, his erection flagging in the wake of Pammy's departure. It bobbed to and fro, almost winking at Draco, as Harry tried to pull up his legs. Draco's hands stilled. He stared at it, silently comparing it to his own, as he'd done with other boys, and as other boys had done with him. Harry's was pink and seemed about the same size as his. The way the light hit it, Draco imagined that it was velvety soft. He had a little bit of black, wiry hair nestled around his scrotum, which, in its own way, looked equally soft. Draco had quite a bit of hair in the same place, but there was something about the black—the virility of it a sharp contrast to Harry's innocence.

Draco stared—not paying attention to Harry's half-hearted wriggling, the thump of the bass from the stereo in the other room, the brassy chatter or boisterous, drunk revelers, none of it. It was like the world had narrowed into that moment, that room. Time stretched until it stopped moving altogether. It was surreal. Therefore, in that context, and ensnared as he was in the pleasant haze of alcohol, there seemed nothing wrong with reaching out and touching Harry's penis to see if it felt as velvety as it looked. Draco's hand reached out. His fingers began to curl in anticipation. His breathing sped up. He was almost there.

Harry's voice stopped him as his fingers hovered at the head of Harry's penis. "I'm cold. Have you found my pants?" Harry asked in a soft, sing-song voice as he shifted his legs to a more comfortable position.

Draco snatched his hand back. The thump of the bass and the brassy chatter from the other room struck him like a cacophonous gong. He gasped, incredulous at what he'd almost done. "Fuck, I must be drunk," he muttered under his breath as he hastily pulled up Harry's pants and trousers, keeping his head turned to the side the whole time. He told himself that he'd simply had a lapse of judgment. After all, he'd always been a curious child. It only made sense that he'd been curious about Harry.

And now he had to focus on keeping Harry from hurting himself. He was trying to roll onto his side and curl into a ball, his eyes squeezed shut.

"How much did you drink, Harry?" Draco asked as he tried to keep Harry still while finishing his task.

"Two lagers," Harry bit out. "Stop it," he muttered. "Gotta roll over."

"Not yet, you don't, and that's impossible. How much did you really drink?"

"That's it. I swear. And then, and then, . . . hey, you smell nice," Harry said with a giggle. "Better'n Pammy."

Draco rolled his eyes, but was secretly pleased that old "Pammy" hadn't impressed Harry as much as she thought she had. "And then what, Harry," he prodded as he finished doing up Harry's trouser buttons and buckled his belt—all with clinical precision.

"And then, and then. . . . juice. Had juice. I didn't like it much at first. Hey, hey, hey," Harry said, smacking Draco with his hand, trying to get his attention.

"Stop it. I'm right here. What do you want?" Draco asked, trying to twist away from Harry's smacking palm.

"Did you know that apple juice is fizzy? Does it burn your throat at first, too? I don't think I like apple juice anymore," Harry said with a frown. He rolled over and clutched his stomach. "Draco? I don't feel so good," he moaned piteously as he got up on all fours and dropped to his haunches, as if he was going to attempt to stand up.

Just then, Blaise and Ron staggered in, looking rather morose.

"What the fuck did you do to him? Did you give him the juice? Did you?" Draco roared as he stood up and faced his dorm mates.

"Draco?" Harry called as he pulled on Draco's trouser leg.

"Just a little bit. He was like the fucking grim reaper when he got here. How were we supposed to know he was a bloody lightweight?" Ron asked, feeling far more sober in the face of Draco's bewildering anger. Pammy had forewarned them that Draco was acting like a deranged lunatic. He was grateful that Hermione had insisted he stop drinking an hour prior. He could never have dealt with Draco if he'd been three sheets to the wind—like Blaise.

"You told us—told us to look out for'm," Blaise slurred as he listed from side to side. "He wasn't happy. We made 'm happy," he said.

"Draco?" Harry moaned, tugging insistently.

"You knew he'd never been to a party like this before. I told you to keep an eye on him. And what do you do? You get him arseholed and leave him in Pammy's claws. Do you know what that bint was about to do to him before I found him? Do you?" Draco asked, ignoring Harry's clumsy pawing.

"He's fifteen, Draco. He can take care of himself. He's not some little kid. Besides, he probably needed whatever Pammy was going to do to him, and, if I were him, I'd be right pissed that you pulled me away from that tart's mouth. You know how Pammy operates. As I recall, you were one of her first "selections." She picked Harry this year; good for him. I'm sure he was panting for it," Ron said, Blaise nodding vigorously in support.

Draco lunged forward, dragging Harry with him. "You take that back, you son-of-a-bitch. Harry isn't like that!"

Ron's brows shot up. "Wait. You're defending Harry's virtue? Not Pammy's? Is that even allowed?" he asked Blaise, who stammered and blinked and tried to appear as though he had something thoughtful to add to the conversation.

Before Draco could respond, Harry pawed at his leg again and moaned, "Draco," as loud as he could.

"What?" Draco snapped, finally looking down at Harry.

"I think . . . I think . . . oh, fuck," he said before he threw up all over Draco's brand new, very expensive shoes. "I think I'm going to be sick," he whispered as he fell on his side and passed out.

Harry was going to kill whoever had done this to him. How dare anyone stuff dirty socks in his mouth, clamp a steel vise around his forehead and cover him with lead blankets? And what was with the smell? Had he fallen asleep in a brewery? And why was it so hot? He wrinkled his nose and moaned—the sound was entirely too loud and made his head hurt even more. He cleared his throat—regretting it in an instant. The sick bastard had poured acid down his throat as well. That was the only thing that could explain the awful taste in his mouth, the way his stomach roiled and twisted, and the raw feeling in his throat.

"Come on Harry, roll over," someone altogether too close snapped.

Harry recoiled from the voice and tried to burrow into the blankets nestled around him. Perhaps if he hid from the noise and the smell and everything else, the vicious churning in his stomach would go away? His stomach seemed to find this idea very funny as it wrung itself inside out and pushed up its contents into Harry's throat—at least that's what it felt like.

"I'mgonnabesick," Harry mumbled as he kicked at the blankets and tried to roll over.

"You make everything so damned difficult," the voice muttered as practiced hands quickly turned him on his side and guided his head over the side of the bed, just as he began throwing up.

"That's it. Right into the bucket," the voice murmured, sounding a bit gentler, "Any more?"

Harry shook his head and the bucket was pulled away. He shuffled over a bit and curled up. He wanted to go back to sleep, but those damn hands wouldn't let him. Now they were trying to pull him up into a sitting position. Those hands had a death wish.

"Stop it," Harry mumbled.

"Come on. You have to drink this," the voice said as it shoved the lip of a glass between his lips.

Harry turned his head away. "No," he moaned, his stomach threatening mutiny if anything ever passed his lips again.

"Harry, you have to drink this. It will make you feel better."

"No," Harry moaned again, trying to wrestle away when the hands turned his head and tipped the glass, forcing him to swallow its contents. It was fizzy and cold and tasted a bit like chalky lemon water. He slurped some of the water down, not caring that most of it dribbled down his chin.

"More?"

Harry shook his head and tried to slip down under the covers, but was thwarted once again.

"Oh no, you don't," the voice said as the blankets were snatched away. "You need to get up. You'll feel better if you do."

Harry whimpered. He pulled his knees up and curled his arms around them. He heard a sigh and the sound of the glass being set down.

"You're such a baby sometimes."

And that's when Harry recognized who was talking to him. Draco. Draco was there. Talking to him, making him drink chalky water, and holding a bucket so that he could vomit. As portions of the previous night came rushing back, Harry moaned and dropped his head to his knees. "Please tell me I didn't throw up on your shoes," he croaked as he pressed his face further into his knees.

Draco snorted. "I didn't think you'd remember that. You were far gone by that point."

Harry raised his head slowly and opened his eyes for the first time that morning. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he turned his head to let them adjust. He heard Draco mutter something under his breath about "Harry and windows" before the room darkened. Harry turned back and blinked. He instinctively sought out his glasses on the small bed stand, knocking things about, until Draco pushed them into his hand.

"Thanks," Harry said as he slipped them on and looked up. Draco's hair was mussed and his clothes rumpled. Pain marred his features, creating lines and shadows on Draco's face. "What happened to you?" Harry blurted, wincing at how loud his voice sounded in the small room. He looked around. "Where are we?"

"Someone had to stay up all night and keep his best friend from sicking up all over himself. And we're still at the cottage." Draco cocked his head. "Don't you remember coming in here last night?"

Harry looked around. "Erm, no."

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. "Figures," he mumbled. Draco fiddled with his sleeve. "Er, what do you remember?"

Harry pressed his heels of his hands against his eyes. His head throbbed and forcing himself to remember wasn't helping. It was like trying to untangle a metaphysical piece of string, he thought, as he pushed through his memories. "I remember drinking the lager Blaise gave me. I, uh, felt good, you know. Relaxed and happy. Um, I remember sitting on the couch and thinking that the upholstery was fantastic." Harry snorted. "That should have been my first clue that I'd had a bit too much to drink, I think."

"Bloody lightweight," Draco mumbled as he sat on the bed near Harry's feet.

"Then Blaise and Ron came by and we toasted . . . mates, or something. I dunno—don't remember exactly. They gave me this juice to drink."

"Yes, I heard all about the fucking juice," Draco barked.

Harry winced and covered his ears. "Not so loud. Please."

"Sorry. Well, go on."

"They told me it was just soda water and apple juice—like at the Smythwicks—only . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Well, it burned my throat at first."

Draco sighed in exasperation. "Why'd you drink it, then? Honestly, Harry. That should have been your first clue that you shouldn't drink so much of it."

Harry looked down and brushed his fingers over the sheet, Draco kissing that little brunette trollop while ignoring him flashing before his eyes. "I saw . . . I thought . . . I guess I didn't much care after that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry sighed and looked up. "Why are we fighting?"

Draco blinked. "Sorry?"

"Why are we fighting? It's stupid. You're my best friend and I feel like we're practically strangers."

Draco snorted. "I can't imagine why," he said.

"What?"

Draco crossed his arms and looked out the window. He wasn't sure what to say, really. "Ever since you got to Wolsford, it's like you've gone out of your way to disregard me and my advice." Draco sniffed. "You're my best friend, and you'd rather spend time with nervous Neville than me. It hurts, you stupid prat."

Harry's mouth flopped open and his eyes grew wide. "What? Ever since I got to Wolsford, it's like you have to run my life—dictating who I can be friends with, how I can act, what I can wear. Honestly, Draco, I'm capable of sorting out things on my own." Harry pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. All of this talking wasn't helping his headache. "Look, this—all of this—is new to me. Parties, girls, fancy clothes, fancy school, posh classmates . . . friends. I don't—I'm not sure who I am, or who I'm supposed to be, most of the time. I'm just trying to figure it all out, Draco. I'm not trying to hurt you. And you of all people should know that I'm not . . . I'm not . . . good at, you know, reaching out to people," Harry finished in a whisper.

Draco looked down at his hands. "I just want you to fit in. I want you to have an easy time of it."

"Yes, but on your terms," Harry admonished lightly. "I'm not you. I'm just . . . well, I'm just me, just Harry. That's all I want to be, Draco. You make me feel like that's not enough."

"Of course it's enough! I just want a little consideration, you know. I feel like we have so little in common sometimes, and, well, like the riding lessons--" Draco trailed off.

The room was silent as both boys thought about everything that had happened.

Harry broke the silence first. "How can you say that? We've loads in common. We're the gypsy kings, remember?"

Draco snorted, but didn't look up.

"I'm serious," Harry said as he shuffled down the bed, closer to Draco. "No one knows the shite we've been through. And, look, I'm sorry. I should have been more considerate. I just . . . I don't know. Professor Snape told me I needed to be more independent and I guess I just took that to heart too much." Harry bit his lip. "About the riding lessons. I'm really sorry about that, too. I understand why you don't want to teach me. I—I can sign up for lessons next term, or something."

Draco sighed. "You're bloody thick, you know that?" he grumbled.

Harry's head was cocked to the side and his nose was scrunched in concentration. Draco almost laughed. "Of course I'll still teach you. And, Sorry. I'll, er, I understand about Neville and everyone else. I get that you're not the same as me—and I don't care that you're not—Really. I just . . . I just don't want that to keep us from being friends."

"It won't. I like that you're different from me. So, erm, friends again?"

"Friends already. I mean, I let you throw up on my shoes, didn't I?"

Harry winced, more of the night before coming back to him. He held his head in his hands and moaned. He felt movement on the bed and was about to snap at Draco to stop jostling him, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and saw the edge of a bucket.

"You okay? Do you need to sick up?"

Harry shook his head. "No. I still feel bloody awful, but I'm okay. Er, sorry about your shoes, and about you having to stay up all night and take care of me. I really didn't mean to drink so much—I really thought the juice was just juice."

"I know. Have I mentioned that I'm going to kill Blaise and Ron?"

"Can I help?"

"Wouldn't do it without you." Draco returned the bucket to the floor and turned away from Harry. He fiddled with his sleeve. "So, er, remember anything else from last night?"

Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember anything else. After his toast with Blaise and Ron, everything else became a bit fuzzy. He remembered hands touching him. Pammy's hands. Pammy's lips. Fuck! His first kiss and he'd been too arseholed to remember it properly. Oh, and then there was more—something about lessons . . . bloody hell! Harry inhaled sharply and his face turned a bright crimson.

"What? What!"

"Pammy kissed me," Harry began slowly. "And then . . . well . . . she, uh, she touched me, I think."

"Touched you," Draco repeated, as if coaxing Harry to say more.

"Yeah. You know . . . uh, down . . . down _there_."

Draco snickered. "Down there? Jesus, Harry, she had your pants and trousers around your ankles. I think you can say penis, or cock, or dick, or something."

Harry sputtered and turned red while Draco continued to snicker and come up with other euphemisms for his penis.

"Stop it," Harry hissed.

"All right, all right," Draco said with a chuckle. "Drink that," he mumbled, pointing to the glass when the silence stretched a bit thin.

"Oh, yes sir," Harry snarked, but did as he was told. "Ugh. What is this, exactly?"

Draco grinned. "Old family recipe. I never share it with anyone, but I figure you were a special case. And I really can't afford to lose any more shoes."

"Ha bloody ha," Harry mumbled as he settled back into the bed, grateful that Draco wasn't insisting on him getting up or anything else equally ridiculous. Now that he was remembering things, he couldn't get Pammy's kiss out of his head. He was having a hard time reconciling how unremarkable it was. "What was your first kiss like?"

"What?" Draco asked, startled.

"Your first kiss. What was it like?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Harry shrugged. "Just curious."

"Was that—do you mean to say that Pammy was your first kiss?"

"Yes, all right! Going to make more jokes now?"

"No jokes. Promise. I'm just surprised, is all."

Harry shrugged again and started picking at the blanket's edge.

Draco sighed and tried to remember his first kiss. He'd been thirteen, he thought. "It wasn't anything special. A press of lips, our teeth knocked. There was too much spit involved. Pretty standard as far as first kisses go, I guess."

"So no fireworks, then?"

"Fireworks? What have you—who told you—bloody hell, Harry. Have you been reading romance novels, or something?"

Harry blushed and looked down. "No. It's just that everyone says that your first kiss is, like, brilliant or something."

Draco snorted. "Only girls say stupid things like that. It's just kissing, Harry. There's nothing magic about it. It doesn't do much for me, anyway. I'd much rather have the touching down _there_," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Harry burst out laughing. "Yeah, that part was pretty nice. What I remember of it," he said with a frown. "She's rather forward."

Draco chewed the inside of his cheek and turned away. "Pammy would have taken advantage of you, you know. I mean, she would have—"

"I understand, Draco. Thank you for whatever you did. I may have been ready for some things, but I wasn't ready for that—especially when I wouldn't have been able to stop it."

Draco nodded.

"Do you think that's normal?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you think it's normal that I'm glad she didn't do—well, you know. It seems like most guys would be gagging for it."

"You aren't most guys. And before you get all tetchy about your lack of experience, or whatever, you can't discount that. I mean, last night was a whole new experience for you. You can't do everything in one night."

Harry nodded. "So, do you think that means I'm normal, then?" he prodded.

Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, Harry. I think that means you're normal. There'll be loads of other times to have sex."

"Yeah. Suppose we should get up," Harry said, changing the subject.

"You feeling up to it?"

Harry huffed. "I'm not an invalid."

"No, but that first hangover can be a right killer."

"Well then, I suppose now's as good a time as any to learn to work through the pain," Harry said with a cheeky grin as he stretched out his legs and made to get out of bed. Draco's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Don't say things like that." Draco's expression was serious—so much so that it threw Harry off balance.

"What?"

"I mean, don't say it like you're used to it. I know you're used to it. You're not supposed to have to deal with that anymore."

Harry smiled. "Thanks. That's not what I meant, but I understand where you're coming from. It means a lot. But if I'm going to be attending more of these things, better get used to the morning after."

A sly grin spread across Draco's face. "Sorry, Harry, but there are only so many things I can prepare you for." At Harry's quizzical glance, Draco laughed and waved him away. "You'll understand one day. Now let's go. I was thinking of making a huge breakfast of fried eggs and bacon."

Harry turned a bit green. "Fuck, Draco, have you lost your effing mind?" he rasped, eyeing the bucket in the corner.

"Nope. You'll be okay—I've given you my secret cure-all already," pointing to the empty glass. "Sadly, though, neither Blaise nor Ron will be so lucky. Care to bang some pots and pans around?"

Harry caught on and grinned. "Absolutely," he said as they made their way to the kitchen.


	20. The Conversation Game

Chapter 20: The Conversation Game 

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note:Thank you, thank you to Sansa for the fabulous beta work and to magichelmet, mimiheart, and alurker for the incredible help with the horse stuff. I'm at capacity on botany research (NOT a field I have any ability or knowledge in) and these wonderful ladies really, really helped!

Also, thank you all for such lovely, lovely reviews. I do wish I could respond to all of them properly, but I have not had the time as of late. Please know that your kind words are much appreciated. Just a reminder, my usual posting schedule is a chapter every three to four weeks.

&&&

Harry lay on a thick bed of grass. He was naked, which no longer came as a surprise, as he'd had this same dream for several weeks now. He delighted in the way the sun-warmed grass comforted his bare skin. Trees and birds and swaying vines of jasmine surrounded him. He smiled. Had it not been for the low hum of longing that curled deep within him, he could lie there forever, content. But he was waiting for someone to join him, a lissome presence that was as familiar as it was foreign.

The perimeter stretched taut as the person Harry waited for drifted in and ghosted around him. Harry's stomach squirmed and his muscles twitched as an indefinable ache became more pronounced the closer the person came. He yearned for release from the longing, the ache.

The person drew closer. Harry shuddered and begged with the curve of his mouth, the flush of his cheek, and the sprawl of his legs. A long-fingered hand skimmed his bare chest before dropping down and cupping his balls. Fingers curled around his cock.

"Yes," Harry whispered, relaxing a bit as he urged the hand to move more, to touch more, to do more.

The hand responded. It stroked Harry's cock up and down, up and down. Harry tried to move into the hand making him feel so good, but his limbs were heavy with sleep and dreams.

The person curled up against him while the hand continued its languid strokes. A fall of soft blond hair swished over his chest, making his nipples harden. He heard himself moan and gasp. The being liked that, its amusement voiced in the silent ripple of muscle.

He didn't know who the person was. He knew it wasn't Pammy. She didn't have blonde hair, and she smelled of gardenias, not the mix of grass and sunshine and earth that scented Harry's dream. Cho Chang, maybe? No—she'd smelled of ripe melon. Cecilia, perhaps?

Before Harry could think on it anymore, soft, dry lips teased his. The touch was electric—not at all like kissing Pammy or Cho or Cecilia. Harry wanted to cry out, wanted to know who was kissing him, but didn't dare. He didn't want to wake up. Not yet.

"Harry," the person whispered, teasing him. Harry couldn't make out the voice. It was too soft, too breathy. "Harry," it said again as its hand pulled harder and faster. "Harry," it groaned before there was a bright flash of light and exquisite pleasure rushed through him, cresting in effervescent waves.

As the last wave washed over him, Harry woke, sticky and panting. It was the middle of the night. He was in his dorm room. He could hear Ron snoring and Blaise rolling over. Harry groaned. It was the third time that week that he'd had a wet dream—three more to add to the growing list he'd begun to accumulate over the last several weeks.

"Fuck," he whispered as he tried to clean himself up without getting any on the sheets or his green throw. "Bloody, bloody fuck," he muttered, embarrassed that he was having wet dreams like some pubescent. He hadn't had dreams like that in years. He didn't understand why he was having them now. It wasn't like he wasn't meeting girls and snogging them silly.

After the first cottage party, Harry had been brave enough to go to others. He'd met Cho Chang at one, who'd been visiting a friend at Collenton. They'd hit it off and had spent the night snogging in the cottage rose garden before she'd rushed off in tears, wailing about a boy named Cedric.

Then he'd met Cecilia, a friend of Hermione's. He liked Cecilia best, so far. She didn't giggle and didn't seem made of spun sugar. Best of all, she didn't cry when he kissed her. Pleasantly buzzed, they'd engaged in some mutual groping the week prior at the Halloween party at the cottage. It had been nice, Harry decided. But . . . something was missing.

Cold stickiness roused him from his musings. He had yet to wipe away the evidence of his dream. He pulled off his shirt and tried to lift his arse so that he could slip his pajama bottoms down and clean himself up with his shirt. The lifting up idea was a poor one. He hissed in pain and landed heavily on the bed. Draco hadn't been kidding when he said he'd be sore after his first few riding lessons. He could bear it, though. After all, he'd lived with far worse. No, the almost unbearable aspect of his riding lessons was the constant arousal he had while riding. The bobbing up and down, the sleek undulation of the horse's muscles as she trotted and cantered, was nearly enough to drive him insane. He hoped—no, fuck, he prayed—that he would get used to it soon so that he didn't have to jolt off of the horse and scramble for the changing rooms in order to toss off before Draco noticed how fucking hard he was.

Harry had almost dozed off again before the cold stickiness splashed across his stomach reminded him that he still had something to do. Before he could attend to it, though, his bed curtains were snatched back as a familiar pale blond head stuck through.

"You okay?" Draco asked, not paying attention to Harry's frightened gasp.

"Y-yeah," Harry stuttered, shifting slightly and pulling his blankets a bit higher, having a vague sense of how Ron must have felt.

Draco frowned. "You didn't sound it," he whispered. "I heard you. Moaning and hissing over here. Are you still sore from the lessons?"

Harry was mortified. Draco had heard his wet dream—his disgusting, adolescent, _glorious_ wet dream. "Uh, yeah," Harry said eventually, his eyes wide and round with apprehension.

Draco made a noise in the back of his throat before going back to his bed.

Harry relaxed. Thinking Draco had gone back to bed, he pulled his pajama bottoms down in front and wiped himself clean, tossing the shirt to the side. He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his sweaty hair, ready to try to go back to sleep.

"Roll over," Draco whispered as he climbed into Harry's bed with a tube of something.

Harry started in fright and nearly rolled off the bed.

"Shh! You'll wake everyone else, too. Now roll over."

"What? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you in my bed?" Harry demanded in a furious whisper.

"I'm tired of listening to you moan and groan. Lower back and upper thighs, right? They're the worst when you first start riding. Looks like the hot showers aren't working. Time to take more drastic measures. Now. Don't make me ask again. Roll over."

Harry thought this a very strange request, and almost said so, but who was he to say whether this was strange behavior? Draco didn't seem the least bit concerned, so why should Harry think anything of it? He sighed and rolled over, still tense beyond measure. Before he could settle in, Draco straddled his legs and cool hands slicked with something that smelled of cinnamon began kneading at the base of Harry's spine. It hurt like hell, and he tried to wiggle away.

"Stop that," Draco hissed, kneading with more insistence than before.

"It fucking hurts, you wanker," Harry spit out, still trying to get away not only from Draco's hands of pain, but from the absurdity of the ridiculous situation.

"Course it does. Your muscles are all knotty. But it's got to be done. Mum comes tomorrow and I want her to see how far you've come. Uncle Severus has a lovely Chestnut mare that I think you'll like riding."

"I've only had three actual lessons, you know."

"Yes, well whose fault is that? I can't believe you told Hagrid that you wanted to know all about taking care of the horses first. That's what _he's_ there for, Harry. He gets paid a bloody lot so that we don't have to worry about grooming and mucking stalls and things."

"I wanted to know," Harry murmured. "Mr. Hagrid has been very nice to me—letting me visit whenever I want. And it seemed a nice way to get to know Eloise."

Draco snorted. "Right. And the fact that Buckbeak's stall is next to hers has nothing to do with it whatsoever."

Harry twisted around, wincing as he did so. "So what if I like Buckbeak? Mr. Hagrid said I might be able to ride him some day."

"Lie back down," Draco admonished. "You're undoing my work."

Harry grumbled but did as he was told.

"You're not ready for him, Harry. I'm serious about that. I mean, if little old Eloise can scare you, Buckbeak would throw you in an instant."

"How many times must I tell you? I wasn't scared! She was about to chuck me in the pond," Harry hissed furiously.

Draco chuckled. "She was bending down for a drink of water."

"Well, it didn't feel that way to me."

"Of course it didn't."

Silence lapsed between them as Draco concentrated on a particularly stubborn muscle, leaning into it all the harder the more Harry winced and tried to wiggle away.

"So, you and Cecilia," Draco began conversationally. "You seem to get on quite well."

Harry nodded. "I suppose. She's invited me to go skiing over the winter holiday."

Draco's hands stilled for a moment. "Going to go?" he asked, both his voice and his hands a bit rough.

"Hey, watch it," Harry said, as he twisted away in pain. "And no, no I don't think so. I don't know anything about skiing to begin with and . . . I don't know. She's all right I suppose, but there's nothing there. I mean the kissing's good, but it still doesn't feel like it should." _Like it does in my dreams_, Harry added to himself.

"Not this rubbish again. How many times must I tell you, Harry? There's nothing magic about kissing."

"Then why do people do so much of it? Why does Ron stagger around as if struck dumb after he and Hermione snog?"

"Ron? You're using Ron as an example?"

"Shut it. I know what I'm talking about."

"Whatever."

"Besides, what about you and Patricia? She seems quite taken with you. And, er, you seem to like her quite a bit, too," Harry said, feeling a pang of something indescribable—it wasn't very pleasant, no matter what it was.

"She's all right, I guess. Won't marry her or anything. She's just a bit of fun, just like I am for her. No promises. No declarations of undying love. You should take lessons."

Harry rolled his eyes. Silence returned. The constant kneading lulled him. He relaxed. It wasn't hurting so much anymore and the cinnamon cream was warm and soothing.

Just before he slipped into sleep, Harry started and opened his eyes. He cast his gaze about the room, noticing how the moonlight glinted off the packed valises. Everyone was leaving for fall holiday the next day. "Are you sure it's okay for me to go with you over the holiday?" Harry asked in a soft murmur. His eyelids were drooping again.

"Stop asking that. Mum wouldn't hear about you _not_ coming. I've held her at bay as long as I can, by the way. She complains that your letters aren't sufficiently informative."

"That's not true. I tell her all about my classes, the friends I've made, that Neville and I have been made Professor Snape's assistants, my little garden that I got to plant in the back of the school, Mr. Hagrid—everything. How much more informative could I be?"

"Girls and social calendars. That's what's missing from your correspondence, you berk. Now stop twisting around. I don't want to have to tell you again."

"This is weird," Harry mumbled as made himself relax, reminded again that it was the middle of the night and his best friend was straddling him while rubbing his lower back and thighs.

Draco let the comment go. He didn't see what was particularly weird about it. Harry needed a bit of massage. Draco was his best friend. That's what best friends did. The fact that he'd never been so familiar with Ron or Blaise didn't enter into the equation. Harry was special.

"Besides," Draco continued as if their previous conversation about Severus Snape hadn't been interrupted, "you've not seen Uncle Severus's house. It's nice, though a bit old and stuffy. It's the grounds that are the real treasure. Go figure."

"I'm looking forward—OW!—Christ that hurts, Draco," Harry muttered.

"Sorry. That one was a bit more twingy than I'd anticipated. You'll thank me for it tomorrow. Besides, Uncle Severus won't let you ride over holiday if you can't prove some basic competence on a horse, and no way could you ride tomorrow this stiff."

Harry tried to quell the hysterical laughter that bubbled up, but a few silent giggles escaped. The idea of being stiff while riding a horse meant something entirely different to Harry than it did Draco. It was such a mortifying thought, that Harry found it hilarious.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Harry said. "You, er, tickled me."

"Oh. Sorry about that," Draco said, making his strokes harder than before.

" S'okay," Harry mumbled, letting go the last of his tension.

Harry couldn't stop the drowsy feeling from washing over him again. He found his mind wandering, as it so often did when he was right on the edge of sleep. The rhythmic kneading lulled him and brought him closer to the edge. Harry slipped off and tumbled into dreaming. He was back on the soft grass again. He could smell the jasmine. A familiar sense of arousal tickled and teased him. Dreamy haze, thick as gauze, cradled him. Warm, long-fingered hands reached out. Harry took a step closer before a terrifying sense of falling overtook him and jolted him from sleep.

He woke with a start and gasped as he remembered where he was and what was going on. Fuck. This was getting out of hand. What the fuck was wrong with him? How could he be thinking of such things while Draco was—was giving him a bit of a rub-down?

"That hurt?" Draco asked, frowning at Harry's gasp.

Harry panicked. "Um, no. Sorry. Er, tickled . . . it, uh, tickled."

"When'd you get so sensitive?" Draco asked, pressing harder.

"I think that's enough," Harry said as he rolled over, dislodging Draco in the process. "I feel loads better. Thanks."

"I'm not done yet."

"Well, I say you're done. This is weird, Draco. I don't . . . I mean . . . Look, I'm fine, okay? Feeling much better."

"Don't be such a prude, Harry. It's just a bit of a rub-down. If you'd feel better about it, you could always pay me I suppose," Draco joked.

Harry made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. His face burned with embarrassment. The night was getting worse and worse, what with Draco's unintended innuendo. "It's not that. I just mean I feel fine now."

"You sure? You look awfully tense still."

"Y-yeah. Yeah, I'm sure. Feel great. Thanks," Harry stuttered, terrified that Draco might discover that he was half-hard. He did _not_ want Draco to get the wrong idea.

"I'm not so sure," Draco began, but Harry interrupted.

"Leave it. I'm fine," Harry hissed.

Draco shifted backward and climbed out of bed. "Barmy wanker," he muttered under his breath as he shuffled back to his bed. "Night," he called as he settled under his blankets.

"Night," Harry said, praying that he wouldn't have any more dreams.

Neither Harry nor Draco noticed that Ron was awake and had seen the whole thing. Ron sighed. He'd put it off long enough. He wasn't leaving for break until later that afternoon. It was time to have a long overdue talk with Draco.

&&&

Draco woke. The dorm room was unusually quiet. He sat up and looked around. Blaise was gone. His bed was made and his luggage no longer sitting at the foot of his bed. Both Ron and Harry's beds were made, but their luggage remained. Harry, he knew, was tending to his botany project. Draco yawned and stumbled from the bed, passing Ron on the way to the shower.

"Morning," Draco mumbled.

"Morning," Ron replied. He caught Draco's shoulder with his hand, stopping Draco from going further. "Do you have a minute? After your shower, I mean."

"Yeah, sure. Everything okay?"

Ron nodded, though his pensive expression said otherwise. "Just need to talk to you."

"Give me a few minutes, then."

Ron nodded again and wandered over to his bed.

Draco watched him go, wondering what in the hell was going on.

&&&

Freshly showered and dressed, Draco sat in the small club chair near Ron's bed.

Ron was perched on his bed, staring hawk-like at Draco.

Draco stretched out his legs and propped them on the edge of the bed. "What's going on, Weaselbee?" he quipped as he folded his hands behind his head, hoping to break the odd tension.

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't call me that anymore. I was eleven, and that wasp was bloody huge and out for death," Ron grumbled as his face flushed with embarrassment.

Draco shrugged, an amused smile playing at his lips. "It was a bumblebee, Ron, and you were wearing that awful yellow and black jumper. The name fit."

"Yes, well I'd be careful if I were you. There's loads of stories I could tell, lots of names I could call you, ferret face. Speaking of which, has Harry heard about the killer ferret? You know. The little white one, three weeks old, I think, who crawled up your trouser leg for a bit of biscuit you were taunting it with? Right nasty beast that little ball of fur was," Ron said with a snigger.

"You've made your point. What do you want?" Draco snapped.

"Touchy this morning, I see. Not enough beauty sleep?"

"If you must know, I didn't sleep particularly well last night."

"I'll bet," Ron muttered under his breath as he stalled for more time, hoping divine intervention would strike and give him the perfect way to open the "Have you ever thought you might be gay?" conversation.

"Ron, seriously, what did you want to talk to me about? My mother will be here soon and I've got to get down to the stables to help Harry saddle Eloise. Berk won't cinch the saddle right—he's afraid he's hurting her."

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Ron said, leaning forward with such ferocity that Draco lost his foothold and pressed himself to the back of the chair.

"You want to talk about Eloise?" Draco asked, bewildered by Ron's odd behavior.

Ron rolled his eyes. "No, you idiot. Harry. I want to talk to you about Harry."

Draco's back stiffened. "What about Harry?"

"Nothing bad," Ron said as he groaned inside. Not the best way to open the conversation. He was going to have to take a more indirect approach. "Er, looking forward to the break? Isn't Harry going with you?"

"Yes and yes. What's your point?" Draco asked as he crossed his arms across his chest.

Ron nodded and bit his lip, ignoring Draco's question. "I'm going home. Charlie's going to be there. Been a long time since I've seen him. Did you ever meet my brother Charlie?"

Draco's eyebrows shot up as he tried to figure out what Ron was getting at. "Yeah, Ron. I've met Charlie. What's that got to do with Harry?"

Ron pressed on. "Do you know about Charlie. Er, have I told you about Charlie? David's coming as well. Um, you know, about Charlie and David?"

Draco pursed his lips and stared at Ron.

"I just meant, well, I mean Charlie and David are together. Did you know that?"

Draco sighed. "Yes, Ron, I know that Charlie and David are partners. I know that Charlie is gay. What's got into you?"

"You know they met at school, right? This school."

"Yeah."

"Well, they were friends before. You know, uh, special friends."

"Okay."

"What do you think of that? Finding a special friend like that. At school."

"I really haven't given it much thought, Ron," Draco said as he stood, tired of the strange conversation. "I'm going now."

"Wait! I'm not done yet."

Draco turned and tapped his foot.

"How long have you known Harry?" Ron blurted, floundering for a proper transition.

Draco reeled from the abrupt topic change. "What's that got to--, oh never mind. Since I was eight. Why? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Just . . . please, Draco. Just . . . this is important, okay?"

Draco rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. "Fine," he said, flopping into the chair again.

"You've been friends the whole time, right?"

Draco glanced to the side and shifted in his seat a bit. "More or less," he hedged.

"Best friends?" Ron pressed.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"Harry's a good guy, isn't he? I mean, you—you seem to care about him. A lot."

"I do. Look, I don't have time twenty questions, Ron. What the hell is going on?"

Ron squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. "It's okay, you know, to have—to have a special friend, Draco. I mean, you know that, right?" he asked, his eyes still closed.

When Ron opened his eyes, he saw that Draco's head was tilted to the side and he was staring at Ron with unguarded curiosity.

"Just what are you saying, Ron?"

"I—I—look, I just mean, haven't you ever thought . . . well, maybe you haven't thought about it . . . and then Harry . . . I mean . . . he . . . I—I—"

Quick as lightning, Draco darted forward and leaned close to Ron.

"Do you want a special friend, Ron?

"What?" Ron croaked, as his brain stopped working for a moment while it processed what Draco was asking.

"Is it Harry?" Draco pressed, relentless.

"Draco, you've got it all wr--"

"It is Harry, isn't it? Is that why you freaked out when he caught you wanking?"

"No, I—I'm not talking about--"

"Is that why you and Granger haven't done it? She's your beard, isn't she?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ron screamed, "Not me, you bloody idiot. I'm not talking about me. You! I'm talking about you! You want a special friend. You want Harry."

Draco fell back into the chair, his eyes wide. "That's—you're—now, look here—how could you—that's a load of—I'm not gay!" he sputtered.

"You sure about that?" Ron asked in a near-whisper. "I wouldn't care. Blaise wouldn't either," he added.

"Why would you think that? Why would you think that I was gay?" Draco demanded.

Ron sighed. "You and Harry. It's just . . . look, Draco, I grew up with five brothers. Sometimes, depending on Dad's assignment, quarters were tight. Add to that that we're a close family. But I gotta tell you, mate, I've never been as close to my brothers as you are with Harry."

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Last night. I saw you."

"What did you see, exactly?"

"You giving Harry a massage. In his bed. In the middle of the night. After he sprayed his pants, of course."

"What's wrong with—wait, wait. Sprayed his pants? Have you lost your mind? You've got it wrong. I've been giving Harry riding lessons. He was in pain. What are you doing listening, anyway? Just what kind of perverted sod are you?"

Ron held back a snigger, but only just. "Yeah, he was in pain, all right. And as Harry so kindly pointed out at the start of term, this is a small room and velvet hangings don't muffle that much sound."

Draco opened his mouth to argue again.

"Five brothers, Malfoy. Five older, randy brothers. I know what I heard."

"That's just ridiculous," Draco sneered. "You just don't understand. You misheard him. And what does it matter, anyway? So what if he had did? What's that got to do with me being gay all of sudden?"

"It's not all of sudden! You're very possessive of him. You touch him all the time and, by the way, you're about the only person he tolerates getting that close. You get all growly when he's attentive to someone else. Add to that the first cottage party when you nearly bit Pammy Smythwick's head off. Oh, and of course, there's the Jordan factor."

"Fucking Christ, Weasley! Not this shite again!"

Ron reached over to his nightstand and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a photo. He smacked it into Draco's hand. Before he could say anything, though, Draco started in.

"What's this prove, then? Just because I have my arm slung around Harry's shoulders does not make me gay!"

Ron's eyes narrowed. "That's not Harry."

"Of course it is. See? Clearly a cottage party. Harry's wearing that--" Draco brought the photograph closer to his face. "Well, I don't know what ghastly thing he's wearing—how the hell he made it out of this room in that I'll never know."

"It's not Harry," Ron said a bit louder.

"Get your bleeding eyes checked. Yes it is!"

Ron ripped the photograph from Draco's fingers. "It was taken last year, Draco. Last year! Harry wasn't here then. This is Jordan, you fucking idiot! Look at the date stamp in the corner."

Draco's face twisted into a sneer as creative expletives gathered in his throat, and then he saw it. The date. The picture had been taken a year prior. It wasn't Harry in the picture. Fuck. It wasn't Harry in the picture. It wasn't Harry whom Draco had his arm around.

"I'm not gay," Draco murmured as his fingers clutched the sides of photograph and his eyes searched in vain for some sort of trick.

Ron sighed. "Draco--"

"I'm not gay! Look, you just don't get it. You don't get the friendship Harry and I have. You're just jealous."

"Then explain it to me. Fuck knows the two of you do enough to keep his past hidden. What, was he some sort of juvenile delinquent?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Maybe not, but I know this. You can dress him in all the fancy clothes you like, teach him all the unwritten 'rules,' but he didn't come from money or a family that used to have it. He's got some sort of tortured past, I'm sure of it. What I can't quite figure out is what role you play in all of this."

Draco looked away, unnerved by Ron's perception. "None of your business," he grumbled.

Ron sighed and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Look, I don't think any less of him for it, and I doubt anyone else has noticed, but there's something weird between the two of you. If you say you're not gay, then fine. But there's something there."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek and pulled at the fraying edge of the chair cushion. "He . . . he grew up next door to me. He's an orphan or sorts. His parents died when he was a baby. His family . . . they . . . they didn't treat him well."

"So he was abused," Ron surmised.

Draco bristled. "I didn't say that."

Ron gave him a look that made Draco's eyes slide to the left while he slunk further down in the chair. "Yeah, he was," Draco said.

"So what happened? What did you do? Did your mum know?"

Draco made a strangled sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. "There was an incident when we were both eleven—right before I came here. A man, an associate of my father's," Draco bit out with venom and anger, "tried to kidnap me—both of us, maybe. At least, I think he did—that's what mother always said. Anyway, he was . . . my father was . . . he wasn't a good sort, I suppose. Harry gets that, you know?

"Anyway, Mum sent me here, to keep me safe. I didn't see Harry for a long time and then I did. And Uncle Severus noticed—he noticed that things weren't right for Harry, that they'd never been right for Harry. That he had no one to help him. So we decided to help."

"So you brought him here," Ron said.

Draco shrugged. "He needs looking after, and he understands me—more than anyone I know. He needs to know that he's cared for, that someone else understands him. I do."

Ron nodded. He was convinced he was right now more than ever. But Draco—and Harry—would have to figure things out on their own. He'd done what he could do. "I understand. Well, I suppose I should be off." He stood and collected his luggage.

Draco stopped him. "You can't tell anyone what I told you."

Ron nodded. "Course. I understand."

"And, Ron? I'm not gay. Really," Draco said. His eyes searched Ron's, willing him to believe him.

Ron saw so much fear in Draco's eyes, so much uncertainty. Maybe Draco was right, but . . . well, it wasn't for Ron to figure out. He nodded. "Wouldn't matter if you were, mate," he said, as he patted Draco on the shoulder and turned to leave. "See you," he called out, wondering what the future was going to bring.

&&&

Ron was a fucking idiot, Draco thought as he stormed through the halls and made his way outside.

He wasn't gay, he assured himself over and over as he fought to get the photograph out of his mind. "They look nothing alike," he muttered under his breath as he kicked at a small stone he'd decided was in his way.

Draco didn't like boys. He didn't. And he especially didn't like Harry—not like that. They were close, like brothers. That was all. Ron, as he always did, had just gotten it wrong. Draco was going to prove it.

He made his way to the stables and small riding ring. Mr. Hagrid was helping Harry mount Eloise as he approached. His mother was there, cooing and fussing and driving Harry crazy from the look of things. Draco would have laughed if his stomach hadn't dropped when Harry turned and gave him a wave.

"Mother," Draco said as he stood beside her, his gaze locked on Harry. "Heels down, toes in!" Draco snapped, startling everyone. "How many times must I tell you that?"

Harry rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that looked to Draco like, "Fuck you." Nevertheless, he dropped his heels and turned his toes in a bit, before taking off.

"Draco. What's got into you?" Narcissa admonished.

"He needs to learn, Mother," Draco said as he continued to stare at Harry, filing away every detail, assessing every feature, and cataloguing the differences between Harry and Jordan. His mind was coming up with far more similarities than differences. Draco took a shaky breath, continuing to stare, sure that he was right.

"He needs riding clothes," Narcissa said idly as she watched Harry ride. "Those jeans won't last long. He'd look quite dashing in a proper riding costume, don't you think?"

That was the last thing Draco wanted to think about. He ignored his mother in favor of bellowing at Harry to tighten up on his reins.

"He's got a good seat," Narcissa commented as Harry pushed Eloise into a slow trot.

"What did you say?" Draco gasped.

"His seat. On the horse. What has got into you?"

"Nothing. I just—I thought you said something else." Draco turned back to his narrowed-eyed assessment. But it wasn't long before he was swept up in simply watching Harry ride. For all his hesitancy, Harry belonged on a horse—the way he moved with Eloise was breathtaking. He'd be a natural at posting, Draco wagered. His legs were good and long, he was slender and not too top heavy, and moved with such natural grace. Draco's lips curled into a sly smile of appreciation as Harry jostled and swayed with Eloise's every movement.

When he found his gaze dipping lower—still appreciating everything he saw—Draco panicked and looked away. He did not like boys. He was not gay. Harry was nothing like Jordan. Draco just needed to pay a bit more attention. Yes, there it was, Harry's legs were longer than Jordan's. His skin was paler. Creamier. Softer looking. Fuck!

"That horse is far smaller than Severus's horses. I worry that Harry won't be able to handle either of them," Narcissa murmured.

"He'll be fine with Moraea, and I'll be with him," Draco said, never taking his eyes from Harry's form.

"You seem awfully cross, today. Critical, too. And with the way you're staring at Harry with that scrunched up face—very low brow, by the way, my dragon—it's no wonder the poor boy is hesitant. I would be too if you were shouting at me about my heels and toes."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Draco snapped as he continued to stare. "He's too thin. We need to fatten him up," he declared. "Can't we make him taller, as well? Isn't there some vitamin or something that will make him grow? And his hair—it's too long. It needs a good cut. Can we see about straightening it or something? He looks like a damn girl."

"Draco! Language. Have you and Harry had a row? Is that what this is all about?"

"Must you interfere at every turn? It's none of your business," Draco snarled. Harry was facing them now—his cheeks pink with cold and exhilaration, his lips curved in a soft smile. He looked just like Jordan did after they'd . . . they'd—Draco made a choking sound in the back of his throat and turned away. "I've got to pack," he said as he stormed away, not paying attention to his mother's calls.

&&&

"If you don't want me to go with you, there are less dramatic ways of telling me," Harry roared as he stalked into the dorm room and slammed the door. "What was all that shite at the stables? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Draco tensed. He kept his back to Harry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't play stupid. I had to console your mum for nearly half an hour. She thinks we've had some sort of row. Is that what you told her?"

"Of course not," Draco muttered, but even to him it didn't sound particularly convincing. "You know my mother, she's just reading too much into it, is all."

"So the fact that you were staring at me as if I were a rotting bit of flesh baking in the heat, I imagined that? She imagined that? Fuck, Eloise imagined that? Is that what you're saying?"

"Don't be so disgusting," Draco said as he closed his valise.

Harry snorted. "Right," he said in a low voice as he stomped over to his bed and opened his luggage, tossing things out, not caring where they skittered.

"What are you doing?" Draco asked, whirling around at the sound of shoes smacking the stone floor.

"What does it look like? I'm unpacking. I've got quite good at knowing when I'm not wanted," Harry said with a sneer as he turned to face Draco.

Draco stopped breathing for a moment. Harry stood there, breathless, his eyes blazing and his cheeks flushed with anger and hurt, his hair wild, and with several buttons of his shirt undone. Draco almost cried when he was gripped with overwhelming desire to _know_ what the hollow of Harry's throat tasted like.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as his knees buckled. "Bloody hell," he swore, before he caught himself.

"Draco, you okay? What's wrong?"

Harry's voice sounded frantic. And far too close. Draco opened his eyes and staggered backward in surprise—all he could see was Harry's huge, green eyes. All he could feel was the electric burn of Harry's hands gripping his forearms.

"Draco? You okay? Are you ill? What's wrong?"

Draco stepped away from Harry and turned his head to the side. He swallowed. "I've got a monster of a headache. I've had it all day. Er, woke up with it. Sorry," he murmured, thinking one might not be too far off.

"Don't be stupid," Harry said as he dashed around the room, searching for his discarded shaving kit. "I've got some Paracetamol tablets around here somewhere."

"I just took some," Draco lied, realizing that he had to fix this. Soon. "I'm going to be fine. Sorry for barking at you at the ring. You—you looked good. On the horse, I mean."

Harry sighed and sat on the floor. "I can stay, you know. I've got loads to keep me busy. If you want this time to spend with your family, I mean."

And that Draco would not abide. No matter the weird, terrifying sensations rushing through him at that moment, Draco would never let Harry think for one moment that he wasn't a part of their family. "Don't be stupid, Harry. Not my family—our family."

Harry looked down and blushed. "Don't say things like that."

"I'll say what I like, thank you very much. Let's get you packed again."

"I—I think I should stay."

"No," Draco snarled. "You're coming and that's final."

Harry bit his lip and nodded.

Draco looked away and swallowed. He was freaking out over nothing, he told himself. Ron had mucked everything up again. Causing confusion where there didn't need to any. Draco would sort it out and that would be that. There was no reason to ruin anyone's holiday. No reason at all.


	21. Harry and Severus Harry and Draco

**Author's Note:**Thank you, thank you to Sansa and Scoradh for the fabulous beta work and britpicking. Thank you too, to magichelmet for help with Severus's horses, though I must confess to thinking up their names. Also, a deeply felt thank you to all of you who read my little story and leave such wonderful reviews. I do wish I were able to keep up with them a bit better. Please know, though, that I appreciate them all.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 21: Harry and Severus; Harry and Draco.**

Harry woke with a start. He glanced around as he pushed his sweaty hair from his brow and got his breathing under control. He wondered what had woken him. Then he shifted a bit and felt cooling stickiness in his pyjama bottoms.

"Bloody fuck! Not again." He'd had that dream again. He couldn't believe it.

He sat up, causing the bedsprings to creak, their sound ricocheting off the walls of Professor Snape's guest room. Harry stopped moving, afraid he'd woken Draco. He cocked his head to the right and listened. Long, slow breaths told Harry that Draco was still asleep.

He looked over at the small clock by his bed. It was half-four—no use going back to sleep. With a weary sigh, he gathered his shower things and a change of clothing. It was going to be a long weekend.

&&&

Severus stumbled into the kitchen at quarter to six, desperate for coffee and the morning paper before having to spend a tedious day collecting tissue samples for his most recent hybridisation project. He stopped short at the sight of Harry hunched over a collection of books and several of his school journals. If the crumpled balls of paper were any indication, he'd been there for quite a long while.

Severus stood silently, weighing whether it might not be a good time to talk to Harry about a few things—things he'd been meaning to get around to, but which were inappropriate for classrooms or strolls to the hothouses. Things that couldn't be put off any longer, not after Narcissa's rendition of events at the Wolsford stables the day before and his own observations as they'd driven to the house.

His mouth quirked when Harry mumbled under his breath, "Who gives a flying fuck about the art of the Etruscans."

"If only Draco were as dedicated to his studies." Severus sauntered into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.

The book Harry was reading toppled to the floor as he leapt back in his seat, making the wooden chair hop backward. "Professor Snape! Sorry. You startled me."

"Yes, well, imagine _my_ surprise at finding a teenager poring over textbooks before the sun was up."

"Sorry. I'll be out of the way in a moment." Harry began gathering his books.

Severus sighed and fought the acidic retort poised to spring from his lips. It was difficult dealing with Harry and his bouts of insecurity at times, like now, when Severus was bleary-eyed and caffeine deprived and feeling rather sharp-tongued. "Don't be daft! I never said you had to move," he said instead, pleased with his self-restraint.

Harry's hands hovered over the books he'd gathered. He bit the inside of his cheek. "You sure?"

Severus turned and faced him, coffee mug in hand and a barbed quip at the ready. His eyes narrowed as he took in Harry's face. He was paler than usual, and had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept at all the night before, or possibly the night before that.

"What's wrong with you? Why aren't you sleeping?" Severus stalked closer and stared.

Harry looked away. "Nothing. I—you know. New surroundings, different sounds. I just had a hard time getting to sleep last night, that's all."

"And the early morning? So excited about," Severus leaned over Harry to get a good look at his books, "the history of the Etruscan civilization that you couldn't possibly sleep past four this morning?"

Harry's face coloured. "I do have a paper due next week."

"Has this anything to do with Draco's surly attitude yesterday?" Severus wasn't in the mood for pussyfooting.

"Er, what?"

"Don't. It's far too early to test my patience, I assure you."

"No. I mean, Draco just had a headache. We didn't have a row or anything. Not much of one. Not really."

Severus's eyes narrowed. "You both seem to have a fair number of debilitating headaches as of late. How interesting."

Harry looked away.

"Close those books. I'd like to speak with you." Severus sat next to Harry and picked up Harry's Botany journal.

"We don't have to hand that in for two weeks," Harry cried as he tried to snatch his journal back. "It's not finished. I have two more weeks."

"The perils of spending your holiday with a professor. Now back to what I was saying. There are things of import I wish to address. I understand you've been invited away for a skiing holiday with Cecilia Buttersley's family." Severus didn't look up, instead focusing on the lab assignments in Harry's journal.

"How did you—I mean, yes, I was invited."

"You've been spending a bit of time with her, haven't you?" Severus turned a page.

Harry wriggled in his seat. "A bit," he hedged.

"And before that, I believe you were quite taken with Miss Smythwick."

"Er, well, you see, that didn't work out."

Severus set down Harry's Botany journal, pretending not to notice the speed with which Harry grabbed it and shoved it under his other journals. "Has any other young woman caught your eye? Or . . . perhaps someone else has?"

"No, sir," Harry said, as he ducked his head and cleared his throat.

Severus gathered that Harry hadn't quite caught the meaning of his last question, which answered some things but left larger issues unresolved.

"I assume you've been careful?"

"Careful? I don't . . ."

Severus watched as understanding dawned on Harry's face.

"Oh! I haven't . . . There's not been . . . er, yes, I've been careful."

"So, you haven't--"

"No. I haven't, uh. No, I haven't."

Severus cleared his throat. "There is no shame in abstaining from sexual activity."

Harry's nervous laughter rang throughout the kitchen. "Tell that to the other boys in my dorm."

"Have any of them pressured you into having sex? Has Draco?"

"No. Not really. In fact, er, Draco stopped something from, uh, going too far once."

"Well at least someone has the sense God gave him. Bear in mind, Harry, there isn't any shame in having sexual feelings. It can be quite confusing. But I want you to understand that having those feelings is natural. No matter what."

"We shouldn't be having this conversation. I mean, you're my teacher and stuff."

"If not me, then whom?"

Harry ducked his head again and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He shrugged. His discomfort was palpable.

"You can always come to me, Harry. Whenever you have questions about relationships, sexual or otherwise." Severus hesitated. "Even if the problem or question involves Draco."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Harry's response was sharp, far too edgy, Severus thought. "You tell me. You two are either thick as thieves or carping at each other as if you were an old married couple."

"Things are fine. All friends have rows now and then. We just seem to have more of them lately."

"There's no need to get so defensive. I'm merely inquiring about the state of things."

"The state of things?"

"Yes, and that leads me to my next topic. Arrangements need to be made for the Christmas holiday. You can't stay at the school."

"I know."

"I assumed you didn't fancy returning to the Dursleys' for the holiday."

"I'd rather not."

"Well, then. Where shall you go?"

"I'd . . . I'd hoped that . . . you see, I assumed, well I shouldn't assume, I suppose--"

"You are not a babbling baboon, but a young man of some breeding. Spit it out."

"The Malfoys. I'd . . . I'd thought, perhaps, that I could stay with the Malfoys."

"And what if Draco decides to spend his holiday away? I understand he's quite taken with a young lady who's invited him on holiday with her. He might accept. What then?"

"I—I hadn't thought of that, sir."

Severus watched as Harry sagged in the chair at the idea of Draco going away, his eyes flashing with what Severus could only term jealousy. "Lucky for you, he is not leaving, and Narcissa has already inquired about your holiday plans. I shall write to your relatives and secure the necessary permission for you."

"Thank you."

"Harry--"

"Yes?"

Severus shook his head. He'd seen the way Draco gazed at Harry the day before—equal parts desperate lust and staunch loathing—while Harry stared out the window, oblivious. And when Harry wasn't being oblivious, he stared at Draco as if he were the very sun. Boys discovering they liked boys was nothing new. He'd seen it before. He was employed at an all-boy's boarding school, for God's sake, but up till now, his discoveries had always been from afar. He never thought something like this would hit so close to home. For the moment, Harry and Draco seemed content to stare longingly at each other and engage in a bit of pigtail pulling. There was no need to force anything to light. Thinking it was best to leave sleeping dogs where they lay, Severus changed the subject.

"Now. Why are you up so early whilst on holiday?"

"I told you. I couldn't sleep. Bad dreams."

"Nightmares?"

"I, yes. No. I—I don't know. Just dreams."

Severus let the conversation drop. He swallowed the rest of his coffee while Harry fiddled with the edges of his books.

"I have much work to do. I understand you're going riding today while Narcissa spends the day in town."

"Yes, sir."

"The horses are spirited, though Draco assures me that you can ride well enough to handle at least one of them. I expect you to be careful and not do anything beyond your ability."

"Yes, sir."

"Be back in time for lunch or I _will_ come looking for you."

"Yes, sir."

"Avoid the back pasture—there are a fair number of spots where the horses are likely to get spooked. I will be most upset if I have to escort you to the hospital."

"Yes, sir," Harry responded dutifully, though this time with a bit of a chuckle.

Severus scowled. He checked the small temperature gauge sitting outside the window. "Wear a jacket. It's supposed to be cold. I've no intention of playing nursemaid, either. I expect you to eat breakfast before you go."

Harry nodded and Severus swept from the kitchen, hoping that for a long time yet he could simply counsel Harry on riding safety and the necessity of jacket-wearing rather than what to do when Harry discovered that he liked boys better than girls.

&&&

Draco felt like shite. He hadn't slept more than a few hours, consumed as he was with thoughts of Jordan and Harry and what the fuck all of _that_ meant. When he'd finally drifted off, it was to dreams of having sex with Jordan, watching her face morph into Harry's as he pounded into him. Her. Him. Damn it! If the dreams hadn't felt so goddamned good, Draco would have insisted that they'd been nightmares.

He staggered into the kitchen at half-eight, stumbling at the sight of Harry's jumper riding up his torso, his head thrown back in pleasure as he stretched his arms high above his head. Heat pooled in Draco's groin and he felt himself harden. Fuck! Not now. Not fucking now! "What the fuck are you doing up so early?" Draco stalked around the kitchen in search of a coffee mug, slamming doors and cabinets as he did so.

"Somebody didn't get enough sleep."

"Who could sleep with all that goddamned moaning and flopping about you did."

There were a few moments of silence before Harry asked, "Do you have another headache, or something?"

"No. Though if I did, it'd be your fault."

"All right! So I'm a restless sleeper. Let it go."

"It's hard to let it go when I can't even think straight, sleep deprived as I am."

"You know what? Fuck you. I'm not in the mood for your shite this morning. Go riding alone. I've got other stuff to do." Harry stood and started gathering his books and journals.

Draco pursed his lips, trying to get himself under control. There should be no reason—no reason at all—for him to think about how soft Harry's skin probably was, or whether he would be able to feel his ribs if Draco were to skim his fingers across Harry's stomach, or whether Harry made any noises when he got off, or anything else as remotely perverted. But that was all he seemed capable of thinking about, and it was making him angry.

"God, you're such a little prat sometimes. Not everything's about you, you know. The fucking world does not revolve around Harry fucking Potter." Okay. So that wasn't much better. In fact, on balance, it was far worse, as he realized when he heard the kitchen chair scrape across the floor and topple over.

"Who could forget that with Draco narcissistic, sodding Malfoy hovering everywhere?"

"Now who didn't get enough sleep?"

"What's your fucking problem with me? You say you want me here, but all you do is insult me. If I wanted _that_ I could have stayed--"

Draco whirled around. "Don't you fucking say what I think you're about to say. Don't you ever compare me to those people."

Harry's face crumpled and the angry spots of colour that made him so _beautiful_ went away. He righted the chair and sat down. Draco turned away and closed his eyes.

"What's going on, Draco? I don't understand. Have I done something? Do I need to change something? Just tell me. I can't—just tell me. I can't stand whatever this is that's going on. One minute you insist on me being here and then the next, you act like I disgust you."

Draco hated how unsure Harry sounded, but he'd been the cause of it, hadn't he? A rather large part of him wanted to reach out and do something as ridiculous as _hug_ Harry. He dismissed such an abhorrent thought. He would admit to being a bit "touchy" with Harry, but on the whole, he knew that boys didn't hug other boys. Of course, boys didn't think about wanking other boys or watching other boys come, either. Not normal boys, anyway. Draco wanted more than anything to be normal.

"I do want you here," he said eventually, joining Harry at the table. "I'm . . . You don't understand. I can't explain it, okay. It's not you. It's me."

"Then tell me what's going on so that I can understand."

Draco looked away. The earnestness in Harry's gaze was too much to take. "I just said I can't explain it."

"That's stupid. Of course you can explain it. Just try. Is this . . . I mean, is this about Patricia? Are you having problems? Is that why you were so upset yesterday?"

"This isn't about Patricia."

"Oh." Harry fiddled with the edge of the table.

Draco braced himself—when Harry started fiddling with things, it was a sure sign that he was uncomfortable. Had Harry figured it out? Had he somehow seen the things Draco imagined doing to him? It was hard to breathe as he sat there, waiting for Harry's pronouncement.

"Is this about Jordan?" Harry asked. His stare bored into a textbook on ancient civilizations.

"What?" Draco felt like he was choking. Had Harry actually figured it out? Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, bloody, bloody fuck!

"That's it. You miss her, right? You haven't heard from her all term, have you?"

Draco closed his eyes in relief, trying to ignore the trace of disappointment coiled deep within him at the realisation that Harry hadn't figured out anything. "I don't really miss her. But, you're right. It is about her. Indirectly."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Oh." Harry started fiddling with the cuffs of his jumper. "Professor Snape says it's okay to, you know, have—have _feelings_ and such. It's natural."

"What?"

"You know, uh, feelings." Harry cleared his throat and stared at the wall. "It's natural to miss having sex with her. I'm sure you find yourself comparing others to her. It must be hard."

"You have no idea."

Harry nodded. "Course. I'll make breakfast, then. Toast all right?"

Draco reached out and grabbed Harry's forearm, squeezing a bit as he did. "Listen, Harry. I'm—I'm sorry, okay? I've been a right git the last few days. I'm sorry."

Harry quirked his lips in a soft smile. "S'okay. I'll, um, sleep on the couch or something, so that you can get a good night's sleep tonight."

"Don't be stupid."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I told you. I was just being a prat."

"Okay." Harry stood, gently shaking his forearm from Draco's grasp.

Draco started, not realizing he'd been holding on to him for so long.

&&&

Severus was on his feet the moment he heard Harry cursing and Draco saying, "Careful. Let's get you settled."

"I can do it myself," Severus heard Harry say, though the words sounded pinched.

"No, you can't. We tried that, remember? Come on, let's get you sorted out before Uncle Severus sees you."

"Before Uncle Severus sees what?" Severus said as he stepped into the hallway. Harry and Draco's heads shot up, both their mouths hanging open in surprise. Draco's arm was around Harry's waist, while Harry's arm was around Draco's shoulders. Severus might have thought it was a lover's embrace, but for the fact that Harry was dirty and mussed, and his trousers were torn in a few spots. Harry tried to take a step, but hissed in pain as he faltered. Draco pulled him closer, clutching at him and keeping him up upright.

Severus didn't waste a second moving to Harry's other side so that he could help get him to the sofa.

"I'm fine," Harry groused as he tried to pull away from both Draco and now Severus.

"The hell you are. Sit. Now. Draco, get the ice packs from the freezer and bring a few tea towels."

Draco nodded and darted from the room.

Severus sat on a small footstool and pulled Harry's ankle to him. He turned it gingerly, ignoring Harry's hiss of pain. "A mild sprain."

"I told you I was fine."

Before Severus could rebuke Harry for his sharp tone, Draco was at his side, the ice packs in his hands.

"Put those around his ankle whilst I wrap the tea towels around."

Draco nodded and began covering Harry's ankle with the ice packs. He flinched at Harry's yelp.

"Pay no attention, Draco. Do as I say."

Draco nodded again and went back to work, obviously upset by what was happening.

When Severus was satisfied that Harry's ankle was sufficiently iced and elevated, he sat back and fixed both boys with his most malevolent gaze. "What happened?"

The boys traded glances. Severus sighed. They were going to try to lie about what happened. Wonderful. Just what he needed on the first afternoon of his holiday—dressing down fibbing, recalcitrant boys who thought they could pull a fast one. The only question was which of the two would make the opening gambit. Draco was biting his lip, fascinated—apparently—by the trim of Severus's throw pillows. It was Harry who looked up, a sheepish smile already plastered on his face.

"Moraea got spooked by something. I wasn't ready for it and I fell off when she reared. Really stupid of me, I know."

There was that sheepish, chagrined smile again—the one Severus knew Harry had used over and over and over again to charm others into looking the other direction. He curled his hands into tight fists, never letting his expression show his anger. Harry continued.

"Draco's always after me about tightening up on the reins, too. Guess I learned my lesson the hard way. Isn't that right, Draco?"

Severus's gaze swung to Draco, wondering if he'd be complicit in this shameful mockery.

"Ye-yes, that's right. Harry, uh, he . . . he always holds the reins too loose. Moraea saw a bird or something, I don't know what, and it startled her. She reared and Harry fell. Landed on his side and twisted his ankle."

"Sorry, sir," Harry added. He bowed his head in contrition.

Severus's eyes narrowed into little slits. He was furious. How dare Harry try to treat him as if he were another adult passing through his life, who only wanted to hear Harry's words and not understand them. Severus bit back the insults and barbs he had at the ready. Instead, he swallowed his anger and decided to use the situation to his advantage.

"That's what happened?"

Harry and Draco traded glances again. "Yes, sir," they chorused.

"Well. That answers that, I suppose." Severus stood. "Draco, please get Harry some pain relief tablets from the first aid box in the linen cupboard. I need to call Dr. Anderson."

"I told you, I'm fine," Harry said as he made to get up from the sofa.

"Sit down. Dr. Anderson is a veterinarian, not a physician."

Draco stopped short. "Why would you need a veterinarian?"

"Well, I can't have a horse that spooks at the sight of a bird. Imagine what she'd do if a fox came ambling by. No, it's better if I call Dr. Anderson. He'll know a good place for her." Severus took a step.

"Wait!" Harry cried.

"Yes? Is there something you wished to say?"

Harry's gaze darted to Draco and then back to Severus. "I . . . I . . . it might have been bigger than a bird. We couldn't see it, of course, but it was probably something much more startling than a bird. And I wasn't holding the reins right. Draco said. You heard him."

"Nevertheless, I think it wise that she no longer be stabled here." Severus turned and took another step, wondering which boy would speak next, and hoping it was Draco.

"Uncle Severus, wait! It's my fault! Please don't send Moraea away."

"Unless you have something else to add, I really see no other choice."

"It's my fault. Like I said."

"Draco!" Harry hissed.

"Quiet. I'm not going to let you or Moraea take the fall for this. It was my fault we had that row."

"Another row? You boys seem quite combative lately. Now are you going to tell me what really happened today, or shall I keep up my ruse to call Dr. Anderson?"

"You were lying?" Harry asked, his voice cracking with incredulity.

"Yes. You inspired me."

"What?"

"Do not take that tone with me. Do not forget that I know you, Mr. Potter. I know how you were treated by those awful people, and I know of the lies you told to cover it up. I will not tolerate such duplicity. Not in my home, and certainly not from you. I would hope, Mr. Potter, that you thought more highly of me than that."

Harry's head bowed again. Severus was sure that the contrition was genuine this time.

"I didn't mean . . . I just wanted . . . I'm sorry."

Severus returned to the footstool and patted Harry's back, an awkward attempt at comforting. "Don't do it again." Severus turned to Draco. "And you. Don't help him." There was another chorus of, "Yes, sir."

Harry was such a remarkable young man that it was easy to forget what he'd gone through all his life. Despite an outward display of swagger and confidence, he was a vulnerable, needy boy who was desperate for a little acceptance and love. Severus worried what dynamic Harry's past would add to what was happening between him and Draco. The sound of someone clearing his throat brought Severus from his thoughts.

"You wished to say something, Draco?"

"We went out for a ride and got into an argument. I was trying to teach Harry how to post. I was behind him, watching him . . . anyway, I said something I shouldn't have and one thing led to another and—and--"

Harry picked up where Draco left off. "And I got upset, pushed Moraea into a gallop, and I couldn't quite control her when she took off. I fell off and landed on my side."

Severus let the silence linger, not saying anything until both boys were sincerely regretful. "I see," he said at long last.

"I started it, Uncle Severus. It was my fault that Harry took off like that. Please don't be angry with him. If anyone should be punished, it should be me."

Severus was taken aback by Draco's protectiveness, though he shouldn't have been when he thought about it. "I think a twisted ankle and the rest of the day in bed is punishment enough for Harry."

"Bed? I don't need to go to bed. It's a twisted ankle. Nothing more."

Severus ignored Harry's protests. To Draco, he said, "And you can take care of the horses by yourself. I imagine you didn't take the time to brush them or anything else."

"No, sir. They're both still saddled. I wanted to get Harry back to the house as quickly as possible."

"Off you go, then. I'll see to Harry."

Draco opened his mouth, as if to protest, but shut it quickly and hurried out the door.

"Don't move," Severus said to Harry. Severus left the room, only to return a few minutes later with a glass of juice and two small, white tablets. "These will help with the inflammation and the pain."

"It's not that bad. Really. I can even move it around now. See? And besides, what happened is my own fault."

"Fault has nothing to do with whether you are permitted relief from pain. That is not an acceptable method of punishment."

"But--"

"There is no but in this, Harry. You and Draco both did stupid things today and for that I think no more riding for the rest of the holiday is sufficient punishment. Keeping you in pain for pain's sake is not appropriate. Do you understand?"

Harry rolled his eyes and muttered a curt, "Yes," under his breath as he reached out to take the tablets.

Severus pulled his hand back. "Do you understand? Do you really?"

Harry looked up at Severus and stared at him a long while. "I'm beginning to."

"Good. Take these and then we'll get you in the bath. You're dirty and chilled."

"Yes, sir."

Severus drew Harry's bath and then helped him to the bathroom. "Are you fine on your own, or do you need assistance?"

"I can do it. It's really not that bad. I can put pressure on it and everything. I don't see what the fuss is about."

"You were hurt. You need a bit of looking after for the afternoon. That's what all the fuss is about. Now. I've left you some fresh pyjamas. I see Draco's used all the towels. I'll get some more."

When Severus returned, Harry was in the bath and the shower curtain was pulled halfway shut. He placed the towels on top of Harry's pyjamas. "I've left you towels."

"Thank you," came from behind the curtain. "Sir? I was—I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk."

Severus hesitated for a second. "Of course." He sat on the sandalwood stool by the bath. "Mind, there are a few things I'd like to talk about as well."

"Of course. Um, why don't you start, then?"

"What happened today?"

"We told you. We had a row, I got upset--"

"No, I mean, what was the row about? What preceded it?"

Water splashed as Harry shifted. Severus could see the toes of his good foot flexing against the cold porcelain wall tile.

"He was barking at me about my posting. He said something about me always showing my arse. I don't—he was—it's really weird. Actually, this was sort of what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Go on."

"He . . . Things have been so strange lately. I think he doesn't want to be friends with me anymore, but doesn't know how to say it. He's always been a bit possessive—even when we were kids. But now it's as if he either can't get far enough away from me or he wants to be on top of me."

Severus bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to hold his tongue about what exactly what Draco wanted.

"Sometimes he looks at me as if I disgust him. I mean, I know I'm not much to look at and I don't act posh enough. But I didn't think those things mattered."

"They don't. You are very important to Draco. Never forget that."

"What's wrong with him, then?"

"Harry, remember our conversation this morning? About it being a confusing time for you and the rest of your friends? Well, it's confusing for Draco, as well."

"Confusing how, exactly?"

Severus looked up at the ceiling, cursing God and the heavens above. "Perhaps confusion is the wrong word. The point is that you—all of you—are going to be feeling things that you might not think are . . . normal, perhaps. But I don't want you to think about that. Normal is a relative term."

There was more water splashing and toe flexing. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You will. In time, you will understand everything. And when you do, Harry, there will be nothing wrong with what you find."

"Er, okay. Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Is it . . . I mean, do boys my age still have . . . dreams?"

Severus pursed his lips and knitted his brows as he tried to puzzle out what Harry was asking. He opened his mouth to say as much, when it hit him. "Do you mean dreams about--"

"Yes, those kinds of dreams."

"Are they just dreams, or are you having nocturnal em--"

"Not just dreams. Erm, dreams with the other."

"Well . . . Well . . . Of course it's normal. It's just your body's way of, er, helping you along in that department. Dreams help us face what we're afraid to see in our conscious lives."

"Oh. So, it's normal, then?"

"Yes. It's normal. But remember what I said, Harry."

"I know, I know . . . normal is a relative term. Thanks for the talk, professor. And for taking care of my ankle and everything."

"You're welcome." Severus watched Harry's toes flex again.

"It means a lot to me. I guess I always imagined that this was what . . . what fathers and sons did."

Severus closed his eyes.

"Not that I think, you know, that we're that way, just that—that--"

"It's fine, Harry. Really. These are the things people do for those whom they care about. It's okay to feel that way. And I do care about you. I thought that was evident. I don't bark or sneer at you nearly as much as anyone else."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, I suppose so. Thanks."

"Anytime."

&&&

Severus heard the backdoor close and the sound of booted feet walking into the kitchen. Draco was back from an afternoon of taking care of the horses.

"How's Harry?" Draco asked as he opened the door to the refrigerator and stared at its contents, as if waiting for the eggs to start tap dancing.

"Sleeping."

Draco said nothing as he continued to stare into the refrigerator.

"There's a horrific storm in London. Your mother's stuck there for the night. She rang a few minutes ago to say she wouldn't be back before tomorrow."

Draco nodded. He grabbed a bottle of juice and started to leave the kitchen.

"Stop. Sit down."

Draco hesitated, but did as he was told.

"I want to talk to you about Harry. And you."

The juice bottle stopped halfway to Draco's mouth. He set the bottle back down. "What about us?"

"All of these headaches and rows, do you know what they remind me of?"

"No."

"When you were a little boy, you were entranced by Pansy Parkinson. So much so that whenever you wanted her attention—which was all of the time—you pulled her pigtails, or flung mud patties at her, or stomped on her feet."

"I did not."

Severus chuckled. "Oh, but you did. And then when your father took you to task for it, do you know what you said?"

"No, I don't."

"You said you loved her."

The words hung in the air for a long stretch.

"Fine. So when I was five, I told a girl that I loved her. What's that got to do with me and Harry?"

"Think, Draco. Substitute rows and insults for pigtails and mud patties, and what do you have?"

"Nothing. You have nothing." Draco huffed and ran his hands through his hair. His gaze darted around the room. "Are we done?"

"No." Severus leaned forward. "I know, Draco."

"I don't know what you're talk--"

"I _know_."

Draco stared at him before lurching violently from his seat and backing into the closest wall. His sneer was full of false confidence. "So what? _So what_?"

"Draco--"

"Does Harry know? Is that why you made me leave? So that you could talk about me?"

"Stop this. Now. Sit down. I am not angry with you, or disappointed in you, or any other ridiculous thing you've conjured in your mind. But we need to talk about this. Harry could have been seriously hurt today. This is no longer a bit of pigtail pulling."

Draco's defiance left him. He shuffled towards the table and sat down. "Does Harry know?"

"He does not. He's hurt and confused and is sure that you don't want to be his friend anymore. I know you're dealing with something very confusing at the moment, but you must stop and think about Harry. With everything he's been through, he doesn't make the same assumptions or react the same way that others do."

"All I do is think about Harry. I can't get him out of my goddamned mind!"

"I am trying to have an open and non-judgmental conversation with you. Do not insult me with your adolescent vulgarities."

"I'm not gay."

"I didn't say you were."

"What is it you said, then?"

"I was referring to your attraction to Harry. I did not say that you were gay. That is not a determination that I can make about or for you."

"But. . . but you said you could tell I was attracted to him. Doesn't that mean . . . doesn't that mean I'm gay? I mean, that you think I'm gay?"

"Attraction can mean a lot of things. You are so insistent on pushing away these feelings that you haven't figured out what they mean. As a consequence, you're lashing out at everyone around you, most especially Harry who is only now grappling with the idea of any sort of sexuality."

"So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you need to stop pushing away these feelings. You need to figure them out."

Draco snorted. "Yeah, right. I can see the conversation now. Hello, Harry? Guess what, I have dreams about fucking you. Er, sorry, Uncle Severus."

"That's not entirely what I meant, but having a conversation with Harry might not be a bad idea."

"You've lost your mind. There is no way I'm ever going to have that kind of conversation with him. These—these feelings, or whatever, aren't normal. I don't know what they mean, but I _am_ going to make them go away. No way am I in love or lust or whatever with my best friend. My _male_ best friend."

"Draco--"

"No." Draco stood and backed away. "I'm not gay. They're just—just feelings. They're not important."

"I wouldn't care if you were gay, neither would your mother. Neither would Harry."

"Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Because this attraction, or whatever it is, is just—it's just—it's nothing. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I need a bit of air."

Severus heard the front door slam. He massaged his temples, wondering what had ever possessed him to try and sort this out.

&&&

Draco couldn't sleep. He kicked away his blankets and flopped onto his back. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about his conversation with his godfather, which made him think about his conversation with Ron, which inevitably led him to think about Harry. Harry. He'd almost choked at dinner when he'd passed the salt to Harry and their fingers had touched.

He wasn't attracted to Harry. Not like _that_. He just wasn't. He rolled over again and huffed as the bedsprings creaked.

God, he couldn't stop thinking about him. What had possessed him to try to teach Harry to post anyway, knowing that he was having all of these confusing, unnatural thoughts? He'd been behind him, watching his arse move up and down in synch with Moraea's laconic gait. All he'd wanted to do was reach out and give Harry's arse a good, hard squeeze. He'd screamed in frustration and told Harry that posting did not require him showing his arse like some sort of cheap tart and to stop doing it because it was disgusting.

Draco snorted and rolled over again. Why was he hiding like this? Did he really think there was any substance to what his godfather had said? Of course not. He'd simply got spooked and had made this—this _issue_ into something far larger than it was. No matter what it was, he had to get some sleep. It felt like forever since he'd got any sleep.

He was just starting to drift when he heard the rustle of Harry's sheets and the creak of his bedsprings. Harry moaned. Draco felt himself harden. He squeezed his eyes shut, and willed it down. It was just another example of how he'd let this run away from him. The more he tried to make it go away, though, the harder he got. The harder he got, the more he thought about Harry. Images of him touching Harry, of Harry touching him, flew past his mind's eye, exciting him and gutting him at the same time.

And then he remembered what his godfather had told him earlier. If he kept pushing the attraction away, it would only get worse. Draco sat up. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? He'd been so afraid of touching Harry, or getting that close to him for fear of what might happen, that he was making it worse. That was the answer. He would go over and give Harry a bit of a massage. He knew he was sore from the fall. Harry obviously needed it given all of the rolling around he was doing, and Draco would prove to himself that he wasn't attracted to Harry at all.

&&&

He was lying on the grass again. Something whispered at the back of his mind that he would be upset when he woke if he didn't leave the dream right then, but Harry couldn't be bothered with it. Nothing that felt this good could be wrong. He smiled as that familiar-but-not presence caressed him with its phantom touch.

Fingers trailed along his back, leaving Harry with the sensation of electric eddies swirling across his skin. He shivered. Hands kneaded at the base of his spine. They were strong and long-fingered. This hadn't happened in Harry's dream before, but it felt so good, so right, that he didn't think on it anymore. He let himself relax.

The soft grass started to fade and the summer sun waned. But the presence behind him didn't waver. If anything, if felt stronger, more real. Harry blinked. What was happening? As sunshine gave way to night, as grass transformed into sheets and blankets, Harry tumbled back into reality—though still not quite awake.

As he was coming around, he noticed that the room was cold and the shadows sharp and slanted. He missed the grass, warmed by summer sun. The bed creaked and his muscles tensed, as if he were about to be struck. That same heavy sensation was still there. He still felt the haze of arousal. He didn't understand. Was he still asleep? Was he dreaming?

"Stop tensing. It's just me, Harry," the presence—no, the _person_—whispered into his ear. He knew that voice. He knew it.

Soft hair brushed across Harry's shoulder. The combined smell of sunshine, grass, and earth wafted by as long-fingered hands kneaded and kneaded and kneaded. He heard his name again.

Harry gasped.

Reality and fantasy superimposed, stealing Harry's breath and stopping his heart for a moment. Holy, mother of God, Harry was having wet dreams about his best friend. It was Draco touching him, kissing him, arousing him, in his dreams. It wasn't Pammy, or Cho, or Cecelia. It was Draco. It was _Draco_.

Well. Harry had no idea what to make of that. Professor Snape's words from earlier in the day came back to him. Professor Snape knew! He knew that Harry was . . . was attracted to Draco. Fuck! That meant that Draco knew, too. What was he going to do?

Tears of frustration and anger pushed at Harry's eyes. He fought them back. He scrambled out from under Draco and leapt from his bed, knocking away his blankets and Draco in the process. "Fuck," he said—loud enough to wake Professor Snape, if Draco's strangled cry hadn't already done it. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?" Draco asked, looking slightly dazed.

And then Harry realized that Draco didn't know. "S-Sorry. Leg cramp!" Harry blurted as he sped towards the door, calculating the fastest way out of the house and the best place to hide, hoping beyond hope that Draco wouldn't follow.

"What's wrong with you?"

Harry paid no attention as he sped from the room, turned left, and ran straight into Professor Snape.

"Sorry sir," Harry stuttered in abject embarrassment as he scrambled to keep his balance, his ankle twinging with pain. "I just . . . I need . . . and he . . . and I . . . excuse me," he finished in a rush as he pushed past and ran out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

&&&

Severus stared at the door, bewildered by the dishevelled Harry who had just run past. Fate seemed determined to make what was between Harry and Draco play out over the course of a school holiday while Draco's mother was stuck in London, leaving the hard work to Severus.

His mouth set in a firm line, Severus marched into the room the boys were sharing intending to find out what was going on. He stopped dead, though, when he saw Draco sitting on Harry's bed amongst tangled sheets and blankets, the pillows half off the bed.

"What happened? Why did Harry run from the house?"

Draco looked up, startled from his thoughts. "Er, sorry, Uncle Severus. Harry had a leg cramp."

"A leg cramp. That must be why he tore out of this room, hobbling along with a tender ankle, slamming the front door behind him."

"I suppose," Draco murmured, distracted and distant.

"Why are you in his bed, Draco? Why does it look as though a wind storm has travelled through? What has been going on in here? What have you done?"

"Oh," Draco said as he looked around. "Harry needed a bit of a rub-down."

Severus's steps faltered. "What did you say?"

"Harry's sore from when the horse threw him. He needed a bit of a rub-down. I gave it to him."

"Did Harry request such a thing?"

"Hmm? No, I suppose not. I just wanted to figure it out, you see. The attraction. If it was real. Uncle Severus? It's real."

"I know, Draco."

Draco nodded. They sat in silence for a long while.

"Uncle Severus?"

"Yes?"

"I think . . . I think I'm gay."

Severus's face softened. "And what has led you to this conclusion?"

"Harry."

Severus sat next to Draco. "I see. It's fine, Draco. I don't think any differently about you because of it."

"I don't want to be."

"I know you don't. But if you are, it's fine. It is not an easy road I imagine, but it's not one that you'll have to walk alone. I promise."

"Uncle Severus? I—I think I love Harry, too."

Severus chuckled. "Perhaps you do, Draco. But the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

"We had this conversation. Remember?"

Severus looked away and cursed whomever had put him into this situation. He was not a goddamned matchmaker. However. There was the little issue of sleep, not to mention his hybridisation project. He was already behind schedule, having played bloody counsellor and nursemaid all day. If this was going to happen, then it would happen when it was convenient for Severus.

"I think you'll find that Harry is more receptive than you think."

Draco's eyes lit up. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you should find Harry and talk to him."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek for a moment before leaping from the bed and tossing on whatever clothing he could find. "He's at the stables. I'm sure of it. It's where he goes at school when he wants to think about stuff. I better take a jacket for him. And some shoes. I don't think he was wearing shoes. Only Harry runs out of the house without shoes. I'll be back. I mean, we'll be back. Don't wait up."

And with that, Draco flew from the room.

Severus smiled when he heard the front door slam again.

&&&

Draco entered the stable, breathless from having run from the house. Gas lanterns were lit everywhere, casting a cheery glow across the dark wood of the stalls and infusing the hay bales with light. Moraea was in the centre of the stable, calmly standing there as Harry made long sweeping strokes with a grooming brush. Her black, glossy coat and long mane shone in the soft light. Any other time, Harry would have looked ridiculous standing there barefoot in his pyjamas, dwarfed by Moraea, but now it only seemed to add to the alluring surrealism of the scene.

"Harry?"

Harry stiffened, but made no other acknowledgement of Draco's presence. He continued brushing Moraea, murmuring endearments to her as she swished her tail and bent her neck in pleasure.

"Harry?"

"Do you know what Moraea's name means?"

"Harry, please--"

"She's named for _Moraea iridioides_, the fortnight lily, a pure white flower that only blooms at night. It's quite clever, really. A solid black Friesian, graceful and powerful, named for a pure white flower that only blooms at night. I figured that out on my own, you know."

"Harry, I want to talk to you about something."

The brush faltered for a second. "What about?"

"About what's been happening the last few days. Weeks even."

Harry dropped the brush and turned around. There was a smudge of something high on his cheek. Draco quelled the impulse to walk over and brush it away.

"What?" Harry dropped his gaze and stared at the ground. He fiddled with the hem of his pyjama top.

Draco tried to order his thoughts. He had no idea what he was going to say, how he was going to explain to his best friend that he was in love with him. He ran his hands through his hair and turned away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry lift his head and stare at him. He turned a bit and started at what he saw. Harry wasn't looking at him any differently than he ever had—but Draco had only just noticed what was hidden in his gaze all along. Desire. For Draco. Suddenly, Draco didn't feel much like talking.

Draco crossed the stable and stood in front of Harry. He let Harry search him with his gaze. He didn't want Harry to be frightened. Not of this.

Moraea whickered and pressed her front hoof into the ground. Draco lifted his hand, letting it hover close to Harry's face.

"What are you doing?"

"You've got a smudge." Draco leaned forward and cupped the back of Harry's head with one hand, letting his thumb sweep over Harry's cheek. He smiled as Harry's eyes fluttered shut.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know."

Harry made no effort to move or to stop Draco.

Draco brushed his thumb across Harry's cheek again, sweeping away the last of the dirt. He didn't stop moving his thumb, though. He'd thought the urge to touch Harry would go away when he'd removed the smudge. It didn't. If anything, the desire seemed grow stronger with each passing brush of his thumb.

"Is it still there?"

Draco didn't say anything. His gaze was fixed on the movement of his finger, watching it sweep back and forth across skin that was as soft as he'd imagined it. He felt bewitched.

"Draco?"

Draco looked up into wide, green eyes. There were golden flecks in them, he thought. He leaned forward to get a closer look, now only centimetres from Harry. He _had_ to see if there were golden flecks, just as he had to feel how soft Harry's skin was.

"Draco? What--"

Draco tore his gaze from green eyes with golden flecks and rested his gaze on soft lips, more pink than red. The top lip was thin, while the bottom one was plump and a bit pouty. Perfect for sucking and worrying and biting, Draco thought as he leaned in, not caring a whit that this was his best friend, or that Harry was a boy. He curled his other hand at Harry's nape.

Time hung, caught in the pendency of Draco's thoughts. His breath ghosted across Harry's lips, as Harry's head tilted slightly to the left.

There was a moment of hesitation, a moment in which he understood that everything he'd ever known was about to change. He didn't care. He ducked his head, closed his eyes, and leaned in.

He felt the soft warmth of Harry's lips meet his. There were sparks, electric tingles, something leaping and coiling around the exhilarating rush of desire coursing through him. He felt tentative hands reach around him and skim across the small of his back as they sought purchase. He heard and felt the low groan swallowed deep in Harry's throat.

As he pressed his lips to Harry's again, and as he felt Harry kiss back, Draco Malfoy knew that nothing—_nothing_—had ever felt so right as kissing Harry Potter. That's when he knew that magic existed in the world.

Draco crushed Harry against a nearby post, ignoring Moraea's stamping hooves and snorts of amusement. Harry made more noises, moans, little catching breaths—as Draco dragged his hands through Harry's hair, clutched at him, and pulled him closer, because, fuck, he wasn't close enough. His lips smacked against Harry's, His teeth sucked in Harry's bottom lip, gleeful that it was as plump and soft as he'd thought. He felt Harry move against him, kissing back, matching Draco's ferocity. Harry's tongue darted out and licked Draco's bottom lip. Draco responded to the invitation and soon they were both moaning as teeth clicked and tongues twined.

They were both breathing as if running a marathon, but neither yielded. As if knowing that the world would change the moment they stopped, Draco and Harry refused to let each other go as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

Finally, the electricity settled into a gentle hum. The need for proper breaths trumped desperate need. Draco pulled his lips away, shivering at the sensation of the sparks still dancing between them. "I--" he began, but Harry shushed him with another kiss, this one clumsy, sweet, and agonizingly slow.

They broke apart, but held each other in loose circles of arms. Draco felt warm contentment as Harry's eyes flashed with wonder.

"You kissed me," Harry said.

Harry's eyes looked glazed to Draco, like maybe Harry thought he was in a dream. "Yeah, I did," Draco said.

"Why?"

"I wanted to see if what I felt was real."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry about the kiss."

Harry looked down with a slight frown. He let his arms drop and stepped back, forcing Draco to drop his. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Experiment over, right?"

"No. I mean, I kissed you without asking. That's why I'm sorry," Draco blurted, struggling to find words—any words—that weren't wrong ones.

"Oh."

Moraea stamped her hooves again and whinnied, unhappy that she was no longer the centre of attention. Outside the stable, something moved through the underbrush. Harry scuffed his foot across the floor.

"Did you, I mean, did you like it?" Draco asked.

"I—I don't know. I think so. I don't know what to think."

Draco saw the uncertainty in Harry's eyes. It made his heart pound and his lungs burn. "I liked it too, you know."

"You did?"

"Of course I did. I want to do it again, actually. If you'd let me, of course. I should have asked before I did that—that's why I said I was sorry."

"You mentioned that."

"Yeah. Sorry, forgot."

"S'okay."

Harry shifted closer. Without thought, Draco's arms encircled Harry's waist. Harry didn't object. He brought his arms up and did the same to Draco. His touch was tentative and . . . reverent, Draco thought. He lifted on of his hands and brushed Harry's fringe from out of his eyes.

So. Can I kiss you again? To help you figure it out, of course. Whether you liked it or not, I mean."

"Yeah. Okay." Harry smiled. "I think I'd like that."

Draco leaned in and Harry met him halfway, the dazed look still in his eyes. Their lips touched and that same familiar tingle of magic followed. Draco closed his eyes and kissed, warmth suffusing him with Harry kissed back.

It was too early to think about what kissing Harry meant in the grand scheme of things. For now, it was better just to kiss, because nothing had ever felt so perfect.


	22. A Matter of Survival

**Author's notes: ** Big thanks to Sansa for the thorough beta job and helping me navigate this thorny path on which the boys now find themselves.

Also, thank you to all for such lovely reviews. You have no idea how much encouragement they give me and how much I enjoy getting every one of them.

Of course, these characters aren't mine—they belong to J.K. Rowling. I promise, I'm not making any money from this, either.

Chapter 22:A Matter of Survival 

The morning sun crept over the horizon as Harry made his way to visit Moraea. He needed a place to think and something to do other than stare at Draco while he slept. Draco. The thought of him produced a delightful lurch in Harry's stomach. Caught in his thoughts, he nearly lost his footing as he tripped over a rock. He laughed, the sound giddy and nervous. He couldn't stop thinking about Draco, or the fact that Draco had kissed him just five hours prior. They'd kissed. Draco had kissed him. Another delightful lurch and Harry nearly lost his footing again. He was smiling like a loon, like a _girl_ probably would after meeting someone "dreamy," but he found he didn't care. Nothing had felt as right as kissing Draco. It was everything he thought a first kiss was supposed to be—a little sloppy, but magical all the same.

Harry let himself into the stables, his eyes lingering on the post that he'd leaned against while Draco kissed him. Moraea snorted and whinnied and stamped one of her hooves. She was restless. Like Harry.

"Morning, girl. I brought you some apple."

Moraea tossed her mane, as if to say, "Of course you did, you silly boy. You wouldn't dare come without bringing me something yummy."

Harry slipped into her stall, grabbing a curry brush along the way. Moraea flipped her tail and whickered.

"You're spoiled, you know that? I bet you think you deserve a good brush."

Moraea nudged Harry's shoulder with her nose.

"All right. Brush first, though, apple later."

Harry let himself get lost in the rhythmic motion and sound of the curry brush combing through Moraea's coat. His thoughts returned to the night before, to the kiss. He had never considered kissing another boy. Of course, four months ago, he hadn't really thought about kissing girls, either. The whole concept of physical intimacy was foreign to him. He'd assumed that the reason he never got as excited as Blaise and Ron on the nights before Cottage parties was because he hadn't yet experienced the full effect of a Collenton girl's feminine charms. Now he figured it had far more to do with the fact that they were girls, or more to the point, that they weren't Draco. His stomach lurched again. He smiled.

Later, while feeding Moraea her apple, Harry wondered if kissing Draco made him gay. He'd not thought about that, not really. Was he gay, in that he liked boys in general, or was it just Draco? He gave Moraea a good pat on her left flank and left the stall. He sat down and leaned against "the post," deciding that some empirical research was necessary.

Harry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let himself drift. He concentrated on the way Draco made him feel, filtering out everything else other people said was "proper." He thought about the kiss with Draco, the way his tongue darted into Harry's mouth, the way his thumb caressed Harry's cheek. Heat suffused his skin and that pleasant lurching he'd experienced earlier became a constant roll of arousal. His had slipped into his trousers, moving up and down his penis. God, he wanted to wank. Remembering the way Draco had commanded the kiss, but how vulnerable he'd looked after, Harry's hand gripped his penis harder. He moaned and let his head fall back against the post. Wanking had never felt so good. He now understood Ron's incredible preoccupation with it. He closed his eyes and let himself go.

&&&

Harry woke with a start. He was still in stables. He looked down and saw that his hand was covered with sticky ejaculate. Christ, he'd wanked and fallen asleep. He was officially an idiot. Frowning, he cast about for a clean cloth, and leaned over to grab one from a nearby linen bin. He shook his head and cleaned himself up.

"Well, that was successful," he muttered to himself as he looked for a place to hide the soiled cloth. He hadn't accomplished anything he'd meant to. He already _knew_ he liked Draco. The whole point of his "research" was to figure out if he liked other boys.

After he was comfortable again, he closed his eyes and ran through the list of boys he knew. Blaise. Harry smiled and cocked an eyebrow. There was a definite stirring, but nothing significant. Ron. Nothing. But Harry had never had a thing for anyone ginger-haired. Neville. A laugh escaped. Okay, not interesting in Neville, but only because he was Neville. Other faces and bodies whirled past, each provoking unique responses, but it was when that boy from Harry's old secondary school popped into his head that he knew he was gay.

His name was Raker. Harry was certain that was the boy's last name, but it was the only thing he answered to. He had long brown hair that he kept tied back, a silver skull in his right ear, and a tough swagger that Harry coveted. Harry admired the way Raker never let anyone pull anything over on him, the way he talked to the teachers, and the way he handled girls. Harry had caught him kissing a girl one afternoon. He'd pushed her against the brick wall and had her head cupped with his large, rough hands. Harry just knew his hands were rough. Raker's leather motorbike jacket crinkled with every move and brushed across the girl's throat as he leaned down and kissed her.

Harry imagined himself against that brick wall, his face cupped in large, rough hands, and the way the cool leather would feel brushing against him. As phantom lips descended, Harry felt himself begin to harden again. A lazy smile curled across his face. Harry liked boys.

"What's got you smiling so early?"

Harry jumped, startled by Draco's voice. "You scared me. When did you get here?"

Draco shifted his weight. "Just now. I woke up and you weren't there, so I thought . . ." he shrugged, as if this conveyed everything. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking."

"What about?"

"You, mostly."

Draco shifted again and rubbed his hands on his jeans. He nodded.

"You okay? You seem nervous," Harry said.

"I—I kissed you last night."

"Yes. I remember. That's what I was thinking about, actually."

"You were. What, uh, what were you thinking?"

Harry leaned forward, delighting in Draco's nervousness. He liked that he could affect Draco so. It made him feel powerful and attractive. Confident. Harry never felt confident. "I was thinking about how much I liked it."

"Really?"

"Course."

"You're not weirded out by it or anything?"

"Should I be?"

"We're boys, Harry. Boys don't usually kiss boys."

Harry's stomach lurched again, though this time rather painfully. His first instinct was to lash out, to defend himself, but as he was learning, that wasn't always the best way to go about things. Instead he thought about what Draco said. He thought about how hard Draco strived to be like everyone else, to be normal. He looked Draco up and down, again noting how nervous he was. Harry cocked his head to the side. "It's okay, Draco. Really. Just because it's unusual doesn't make it bad. Er, did you like it?"

"Course I did. I told you that. I just . . . Jesus, Harry, everything is turned upside down."

"I know. I was just thinking about what all of this means."

"Yeah? Come up with any answers?"

"Yeah. I like boys better than girls. And—and I like you best of all." Harry tensed, afraid of how Draco might react. Draco thought kissing boys was terrifying? Try putting your heart out there for anyone to come by and squish it to bits. _That _was terrifying.

The corners of Draco's mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. Harry relaxed and patted the floor next to him. "I was in the middle of an experiment. Want to join me?"

Draco walked forward, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "What kind of experiment?"

"I was trying to figure out if I was gay, or if I just liked you."

"Oh yeah? How'd you figure it out?"

"I imagined kissing another boy." Harry laughed at Draco's growl. "You should try it."

"I really don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Because, why? Because if you're not supposed to kiss boys, you shouldn't _think_ about kissing them, either?"

"Something like that. Why are you okay with this? Did you know before? Did you just not tell me, or something?"

Harry shook his head. "Had no idea. It doesn't change who I am, though. If anything, it makes me more _me_, I guess. And I've never really fit in." Harry shrugged. "I'm used to being, uh, unusual, I guess. I don't mind it, especially if I've got someone to share it with."

Draco scratched the back of his neck. "I'm still trying to figure it out."

"Me too. I just . . ." Harry shrugged again. "I guess I don't see it as such a bad thing."

"It's not that I see it as a bad thing. Maybe I do. I don't know. It just . . . I never thought . . . I'm not even sure--"

Harry grabbed Draco's hand and gave it a light squeeze. "I was picturing this boy I knew at my old secondary school. He had long brown hair that he kept tied back. He always wore this old leather jacket. I was picturing what it would have been like to kiss him. I liked it."

Draco inhaled sharply.

"But not as much as kissing you."

Draco turned to him and stared for a long while.

Harry didn't look away—he met Draco's stare with a bit of challenge. Only when he felt Draco's fingers skim across his cheek did he look away.

"I thought I was the confident one."

"You are. Most of the time. I'm just . . . I dunno. More accepting, more adaptable, maybe?"

Draco nodded, still caressing Harry's cheek.

Neither said anything for a long while. They just sat there, staring at each other, touching furtively, until at last Draco said something.

"There was this man, at the airport when Mum picked me up at the end of last term. His clothes were beautiful and fit him perfectly." Draco snorted. "At the time, I thought I was just impressed with his tailoring."

"Can you imagine kissing him?"

Draco let his fingers drop. He closed his eyes. "I can. But--"

"Yeah?"

"Right now the only person I want to kiss is you. And I don't like you thinking about kissing other people."

"It was just an experiment, Draco. Just a test to see."

"Yes, well, experiment bloody well over."

"You're awfully possessive for someone who isn't even sure he wants to admit that he likes kissing boys."

"Perhaps I just need a bit more convincing."

Harry laughed. "Using my words against me, are you?"

"Of course."

"Maybe I still need a bit of convincing as well."

Draco smiled. He leaned in, snaking one arm around Harry's shoulders, while the other hand cupped the back of Harry's head. Harry leaned in as well, linking his hands at the small of Draco's back. The hesitation was longer this time. It was as if they were asking each other—with silence and stares and halting breaths—whether they wanted to make this journey. Somehow, kissing in the light of day was far more real than kissing in the middle of the night, surrounded by the glow of flickering gas lanterns.

Harry leaned in a bit farther first. Draco followed suit. Their lips touched and both groaned as they fell into the magic of their kiss. It was just as sloppy, just as perfect, as the night before. Caught up in what they were doing, they never heard the stable door open, or Narcissa's soft gasp.

&&&

Narcissa was very pleased with herself. She wandered through Severus's house, hoping to find someone with whom she could share her good news. It was still early enough that she'd thought the boys might still be asleep. Their room had turned up nothing but unmade beds and socks and trainers all over the floor. Severus wasn't in either, but that wasn't a surprise. Narcissa assumed that he was at the greenhouse, working on some ridiculous experiment or another, which meant that the boys were likely at the stables. Knowing Severus wouldn't care a whit about the fact that she'd secured coveted holiday invitations for the boys, Narcissa began the trek to the stables.

London had been a great success. She'd procured invitations for the boys to the Stanard holiday fete—a very lucrative acquisition, indeed. The Smythwick girl would be there as well as young women from other fine families. Narcissa's mind whirred with the endless matchmaking possibilities. The boys were nearly sixteen. It was time that they started getting serious about the business of romance. They had only a few more years to work out the kinks of courting before they would have to do it for real. She sighed, imagining little tow-headed grandchildren playing with their little black-haired cousins. There was so much that she wanted for Draco, and Harry as well.

The door to the stable was open. She heard voices inside—Harry and Draco's. Smiling, she stepped inside, ready to announce that she was home. She stopped short. What she was seeing didn't make sense. The boys were sitting on the floor. Harry sat against a post and Draco was . . . leaning over him. He had his hands on Harry's face, as if cupping it. Narcissa thought perhaps something was wrong with Harry, that he had something in his eye, but Draco shifted and Narcissa saw exactly what was happening.

Draco was kissing Harry. They were kissing. The boys were kissing . . . as if this wasn't the first time they had done so.

Narcissa's hand flew to her mouth. Tears sprung at the corners of her eyes. She backed away slowly, hoping they wouldn't notice her. When she'd made it outside, she stood there, staring at the doorway, wishing she'd never gone in.

Severus. She had to find Severus. He would clear this up. He would make sense of it. He would fix it.

&&&

"Severus? Are you here?"

Severus started at the sound of Narcissa's voice. He'd been dreading Narcissa's return. The odd waver in her voice told him his apprehension was well-founded. "I'm in the back."

A few moments later Narcissa came into view. Her face was tinged with grey and her mouth was set in a firm line. Severus suspected he knew why. "When did you get back?"

"Just this morning." She took a halting step forward. "I . . . no one was at the house. I assumed you were here and that the boys had gone for a ride. I wanted to talk to Draco and Harry both. I secured invitations for them to the Stanards' annual holiday fete."

"Did you find them?"

Narcissa bit her lip and nodded.

Severus tensed. "What did they say?"

"Can you explain any set of circumstances under which my son would be—be--" She closed her eyes, obliviously struggling to find the right words.

"Cissa?"

"They were kissing. Draco—he, he was kissing Harry. And Harry didn't seem to mind. What in the world is going on?"

Severus turned back to his lab table. He could feel the heat of Narcissa's stare.

"Why don't you seem surprised?"

"What?"

"You don't seem surprised, Severus. Why?"

Severus turned back, his sneer firmly in place. "Because I'm not."

"What? What do you mean you're not surprised? How—how . . . wait a moment, you knew about this? You knew and said nothing to me?"

"I suspected. I didn't know. Not until yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?"

"They had epiphanies of a sort."

"How do you know that?"

"Because they told me."

"And yet you didn't share your suspicions with me? Or their _epiphanies_? I'm Draco's mother. I have a right to know about these things."

"What would you have had me say, Narcissa? Done? Track you down in London and say, hello, I believe your son and his best friend are gay and that they fancy each other. Is that really what you would have wanted me to say?"

"Yes! No. I—I don't know." Narcissa paced across the greenhouse floor. "Did you at least counsel them against this?"

"Of course I didn't."

Narcissa stopped, her expression incredulous. "Have you lost your mind? You encouraged them to do this? Why? Why would you encourage them to do this?"

"I did not encourage them to kiss each other, I encouraged them to embrace who they were, not to hide from themselves."

"You irresponsible bastard! They're fifteen years old, or has that escaped your notice? They don't know what the hell they want, or what they're feeling. In my absence it was your job to keep them from making such a monumental mistake. How could you do this?"

"I haven't done anything except help two very confused boys understand their feelings. Their behavior towards each other was getting out of control. I've been watching this unfold over the course of the term and the situation had become intolerable. They were either going to kill each other or kiss. Between you and me, I much prefer them alive and _gay,_ over dead and sexually frustrated. That's all there is to it."

"That's all there's to it? That's all? You make it sound like the world is one big gay parade, simply waiting for people to discover themselves and join in."

"That's ridiculous, even for you."

Narcissa said nothing for a long while. "You have to fix this."

"Why are you assuming that it's a mistake? I've never known you to be homophobic, Narcissa. Does it matter if your son is gay? Does it matter if Harry is gay?"

"That's not fair. You can't spring this on me and not expect me to react. And they aren't some experiment that you can watch and see what happens. You should have told me straight away that you suspected something like this."

"Perhaps I should have."

Narcissa pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "God, what is happening? This can't be happening."

"It is happening, I assure you."

"And now they're kissing."

"And now they're kissing," Severus echoed.

Narcissa sat in a nearby chair and stared at the floor. Severus returned to his lab table and stared at his experiment, not really seeing anything. The silence stretched so long that Severus was about to pick up his forceps and try again when Narcissa's voice cut through the quiet.

"How far has this gone?"

"What?"

"What have they done? Are they having . . . oh God . . . are they intimate?"

"With each other? Hardly. With others? I'm sure of it—at least on Draco's part. I don't think Harry's graduated much beyond a bit of heavy petting."

"Are you saying that my son is some sort of sexual aggressor? Are you claiming that he's pressuring Harry into this? How dare you suggest such a thing!"

"Calm down! I said nothing of the sort. Draco is experienced. Harry is not. Neither of them is experienced with other boys. As far as Draco pressuring Harry into doing anything, you should know how difficult a prospect that is. Harry does not respond kindly to demands."

"Oh, so now my son is demanding."

"Listen to yourself! You're not making any sense!"

"I'm sorry if I'm a bit distraught, Severus. You see, my oldest friend has just told me that my son is a homosexual and has romantic designs on his emotionally unstable, _male_ best friend—something that my friend has known about, or at least suspected, for months now, yet failed to tell me. Forgive me if I seem a bit out of sorts."

"I _am_ sorry. I . . . I didn't know if what I suspected was true. It's a difficult conversation to have, even if you're sure. This conversation should be proof positive of that."

"And yet you seemed to have no problems discussing it with the boys, one of whom is my son."

"I didn't want to say anything unless I was sure. If I'd been wrong--" Severus shook his head. "I'm sorry. I should have said something."

"Yes. You should have. But perhaps I wouldn't have listened. Perhaps I would have told you that you were delusional. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. What mother wants to find out that her son is in for life of cruelty and pain because others will see him as dirty, or evil, or at best, an oddity?"

"You don't know that. You don't know that any of that will happen."

"Yes, well I don't know that any of it won't."

Severus didn't have a response for that. Instead, he turned back to his lab table and straightened his tools and lab notes, letting the silence enfold them again. When it became clear that Narcissa wasn't going to say or do anything else for a while, Severus tried to begin his experiment again. He was soon lost in tincture analysis and absorption rates and had nearly forgotten that Narcissa Malfoy sat behind him, coming to terms with the fact that her son was gay.

&&&

Draco sat back against the hay bales stacked on the stable floor, grateful that they'd moved their activities to a more comfortable location. He looked over at Harry and grinned at what he saw. Harry's hair was mussed more than normal. There was a pink flush to his skin and his eyes looked a little glassy. Draco nudged Harry's shoulder with his. "No time for naps, Harry. You said you had to help Uncle Severus in the greenhouse this morning."

"Uh huh." Harry yawned and shuffled a bit closer so that he was leaning against Draco.

Draco smiled and took Harry's hand in his, letting his fingers trail across the back of Harry's hand. "I'm serious. The faster you get done, the sooner we can experiment some more."

Harry snorted. "Feeling a bit more confident about all of this, I see."

"I suppose. But you have to admit, all of this is a little strange, different, maybe. Had you honestly thought about being with a boy before last night?"

"No. But that doesn't mean there's something wrong with this. I mean, it feels too good to be wrong, yeah?"

Draco agreed. They sat in silence for a while, Draco watching his fingers trail along Harry's skin, Harry nestling closer and closing his eyes. Draco smiled at the idea of Harry taking a little nap half-sprawled across him. Draco found it ironic that he'd never once cuddled with a girl he'd been with, finding the idea abhorrent, but now he couldn't imagine anything more lovely than sitting with Harry while Harry napped. It was very strange the way the world worked.

"When are you going to tell your mum?"

"I thought you were sleeping?"

"No. Just resting."

"Oh."

"So, when?"

"When, what?"

Harry sighed. "When are you going to tell your mum?"

"I don't know. I hadn't given it much thought."

"What about tonight? After dinner, maybe?"

Draco's hand stilled. Panic seized him. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because we've just started this. I need time to get my head around it before I tell my mother. Besides, why does she even have to know?"

Harry sat up and blinked. "Because she's your mother. And I thought you were fine with all of this. Wasn't what all of that _experimenting_ was about?"

Draco shuffled away, irritated. "Of course I'm fine with this, you stupid prat, but that doesn't mean I want to shout it from the rooftops just yet."

"Who's talking about rooftops? I'm just talking about your mother. Don't you think Professor Snape is going to tell her?"

Draco stiffened. He'd not thought of that.

"Even if he doesn't, what if your mother finds out some other way. Are you going to deny it?"

"No. No, I'm not. Look, I don't want to fight about this, okay?"

"I don't want to fight either, but I want to know that you aren't ashamed of me."

Harry tried to stand up and get away, but Draco was faster. Draco had to remind himself all of the time how skittish Harry could be. He grabbed Harry's face, cupping it with his hands, and kissed him hard. There was no hesitation and not an ounce of insecurity. Harry fought him at first, before relaxing into the kiss and fighting for dominance. Draco smiled as his tongue stabbed its way into Harry's mouth, making clear who was controlling the kiss. God, he loved the sounds Harry made in the back of his throat as Draco kissed him. When he was sure he'd gotten his message across, Draco let go and sat back, watching Harry's eyes flutter open.

"You can be very convincing when you want to be."

"It's the truth, Harry. I'm not ashamed of you. I'm not ashamed of this. It's just . . . I'd like to do things in my own time. If Mum finds out before then, then we deal with it. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

"As for school, though, I think we should, uh, well--"

"I understand. We'll have to be really careful, though. I'm not going to stop kissing you just because we don't want the rest of the school to know what's going on."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

Harry smiled and stood, helping Draco to his feet at the same time. "Come on. Let's get the work over with so that we can, uh, play."

&&&

Severus was adding the last cutting of the batch he was working with when a shrill chortle rang out, ripping through the silence. Severus, startled, whirled around. "Cissa? Are you okay?" It had been over an hour since she'd come in and they'd had their row. Severus feared the stress of the day had finally gotten to her.

Narcissa waved away Severus's concern. "I was just thinking that I was glad to have told Mrs. Stanard that Draco and Harry both were looking forward to meeting her sons, and that they might enjoy a bit of sport over the winter holiday." Narcissa giggled, a bit hysterically in Severus's estimation. "I said . . . I said . . . Oh, Severus, I said that I was sure the boys would be up for a bit of a tumble. Can you imagine? A tumble. Thank God we weren't discussing that grueling hunt they do every New Year's, otherwise I would have been forced to say the boys were up for a rough ride." Narcissa giggled again before sobering in the next instant. "Oh, God. I've made my first homosexual joke. I'm joking about this." Narcissa pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "This is really happening, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

"What now? What do I do?"

"That depends."

"I'm not going to disown him, Severus. I know that's what you're thinking. Nor am I going to vilify Harry. Lord knows what that child is going through now."

"If they wish to see each other?"

Narcissa sighed and dropped her hands to her lap. She shook her head. "One thing at a time, Severus. I'm not saying no, just . . . I need some time to wrap my brain around this. I'd sort of hoped my days of coping when the world upended in the blink of an eye were over."

"You cannot compare--"

"Can't I? The life I thought my son would have is dead, Severus—assuming what you say is true. It's very much the same, and I'll thank you not to presuppose how something like this would affect me. Frankly, you seem entirely too calm about this."

"I refuse to get hysterical over something that is immutable."

"Need I remind you, they are fifteen. They change their minds on the hour."

"Not about something like this, Narcissa. Not Draco and certainly not Harry."

Narcissa smoothed the front of her pants. "I know one thing, there will have to be rules. Lots and lots of rules. Especially of the 'not-sleeping-together' kind. Which means, of course, one of the boys will have to be transferred to a new room at school. Draco, I think. He's known the other boys in his year much longer than Harry and would have an easier time adjusting."

"Stop. There is no reason why either of them have to move."

"Are you insane? Randy teenage boys, attracted to each other, living in the same room, showering together, for God's sake, and you say there's no reason for either of them to move?"

"I'm just saying that--" Severus stopped at the sound of laughter and the slam of the greenhouse door.

"Oi! I told you I promised Professor Snape that I'd help. _You_ helping will only make things go longer," Harry said, his voice drifting through the greenhouse, laughter ringing in his voice.

Footsteps sounded at the front of the greenhouse, turning at a large bank of palms obscuring Severus and Narcissa from the boys' view.

"Bollocks. I can help, and you know it. Besides, the faster we get done, the faster we can do other things," Draco said.

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know," Draco said in a singsong voice. He sounded as if we were about to elaborate, but both boys had come around the bank of palms and could now see Severus and Narcissa. Draco stopped short, almost falling as an unsuspecting Harry stumbled into him. For a long moment Draco and Narcissa stared at each other, each assessing the other. "Mother. When did you get back?" Draco's voice was shaky, his eyes wide. Harry, Severus noticed, had gone pale.

Narcissa looked at both boys, clear meaning in her eyes, as she said, "This morning. I couldn't find anyone at the house. I went to the stables."

It took longer than it should have for either boy to understand what was so important about those words. Harry gasped, catching on much faster than Draco. But it was Draco's reaction that made Severus want to rush over and assure him that everything was fine. He watched as terror and resolve warred across Draco's face, before settling into a bizarre mixture of the two.

"I see," Draco said, his chin tilted in defiance. "Are you angry? Have you come to cut me off? Do I disgust you? " he asked, he words faltering on the last.

Narcissa rushed to Draco's side. "Dragon, everything will be fine. It will be. I'm not angry. I promise. I love you."

Harry took a few steps back, his expression closing off and his arms curling around his torso. Before he could get away, Narcissa went to him and pulled him into a hug, telling him the same things, much to Harry's shock.

Narcissa stepped back. "Well. I suppose there is much to discuss. If you thought I'd embarrassed you with the _talk _before, Draco, you haven't heard anything yet."

"You can't be serious. Mum, we cannot have that conversation here. In front of Uncle Severus."

"Yes we can, and we will. We're all feeling our way, here, and we're going to figure it out together. That requires frank conversation about what . . . what you," Narcissa made gestures with her hands in an attempt to convey the words she couldn't quite say. "You know what I'm trying to say and the greenhouse isn't the place to do it."

"So, you're—you're okay with this? With me? And Harry?"

Narcissa closed her eyes. "This is not the life I would wish for you. I am not entirely convinced that either of you know what you want or that this is it. However, I am willing to discuss it with you, and remain open to the possibility."

Draco and Harry traded glances. Draco nodded, the movement hesitant. "Well. I suppose we should go back to the house." He turned and started to walk back to the front of the greenhouse. He stopped when he reached Harry. With a toss of his head that Severus knew so well, Draco grabbed Harry's hand. "This okay?"

Harry smiled, and it was as if the sun had suddenly shown him favor, Severus thought. "Yeah. Fine. Brilliant."

Draco smiled back and walked back to the house with Harry, hand in hand, with Narcissa and Severus trailing behind.

The walk back was quiet. The boys seemed tense, but Severus wasn't surprised. He wondered how much of the handholding was defiance and how much was simple comfort. Severus's gaze cut to Narcissa, who was unusually pensive. He feared what that would mean when they got back to the house.

"Narcissa--"

"I'll be fine. We'll all be fine. Somehow we will make it through this. We're Malfoys and Snapes and Potters—we are all survivors of a sort. If nothing else, we are that."

tbc


	23. Normalcy

**Author's Note:**Thank you, thank you to Sansa, Opaquevision, and Scoradh for the fabulous beta work. Also, a deeply felt thank you to all of you who read my little story and leave such wonderful reviews. I do wish I were able to keep up with them a bit better. Please know, though, that I appreciate them all.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Harry watched the hills roll by from the back passenger window. He listened to the soft patter of wind buffeting the car as it drove along the narrow street. Draco made little sounds of disgust every few pages of _Middlemarch_ while his fingers turned the pages with the staccato snap of impatience. Mrs. Malfoy's lilting voice belied the ruthless precision with which she discussed holiday plans, Professor Snape's terse commentary about the inanity of the society holiday season an acidic counterpoint. It was all so very normal—as if nothing had changed. Harry's stomach filled with a gnawing sense of dread. He sunk further down in his seat, concentrating on the bare trees whipping by.

"Well, we simply can't accept the Squires' invitation for the twenty-third, not when we've been invited to the Smiths' that same afternoon," Mrs. Malfoy said.

"Why ever not? They aren't at the same time. Surely you have enough stamina to go to two parties in the same day. You've managed as many as five or more. Though why you would want to is beyond me. Every event is the same—too much rum punch, not enough smoked salmon, and far too many society matrons done up like tarts, festooned in garish silk and ridiculous feathers. That reminds me, please tell me you've seen sense and have disposed of that horrid ostrich feather handbag."

"That handbag was handmade in Italy. It's one of a kind and matches everything."

"Translation: you spent far too much on it, and the bank refused to honour any more of your bank drafts unless you promised to use it from now until the end of time."

Mrs. Malfoy snorted, rather uncharacteristically, Harry thought. "You're one to talk. Shall we get into those pretty little white flowers you fussed with last year, hmm?"

"Those were _Cypripedium candidum_s, Narcissa. They were integral to my research at the time. I could never have finished my project without them. And have you any idea what I had to go through to get those from America? Do you? I had to—oh, never mind. Let's return to _more important topics_, like why you can't possibly attend two parties on the same day."

"You do this every year. You trivialize these events, yet you never fail to escort me all the same."

There was a tense silence for a moment before Professor Snape spoke again. "You should not have to attend alone, especially given the circumstances." It was the first time Harry had ever heard Professor Snape sound unsure of his footing. He wondered what that meant as he tried to focus on the festooned post box they had just passed.

"You're a lovely escort. You always have been. Thank you." There was an odd ring in Mrs. Malfoy's voice that Harry couldn't place. He glanced over at Draco, but he was still engrossed in his book, oblivious to the gentle sniping between his mother and godfather, and the odd, unspoken things that lay beneath their words.

"Explain why you cannot accept both invitations." Professor Snape's voice sounded as conciliatory as Harry had ever heard it.

"The Smiths and the Squires aren't speaking to each other. I've known the Smiths far longer, I couldn't possibly think of breaking rank like that. Though, I must say, I never thought what Tandie Squires said about Mildred Smith's cabbage salad was that ghastly."

Harry resisted the urge to laugh as he imagined Professor Snape's fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "All of this—this _drama_—over a curdled cabbage salad? I will never understand your preoccupation with such ludicrous, unimportant frippery."

"And that's what makes you such an excellent escort, Severus. You don't understand, nor do you want to," Narcissa said without missing a beat. She shifted in her seat. "Harry?"

Harry turned, startled to hear his name. He looked up at Mrs. Malfoy, his expression questioning.

"Is it all right if we don't attend the Squires' party?"

Harry nodded, shocked that he was being asked. "I don't even know them, er, do I?"

"Thomas Squires is in your class, I believe. He gets on well with Draco."

Harry turned to Draco, who was momentarily diverted from his task by the sound of his name. He simply shrugged and went back to reading.

"No burning desire to attend, then?" Mrs. Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head, wondering if there would ever come a time when these ridiculous social games would ever make sense to him. He didn't even like cabbage salad, but neither did he know the Squires. "Have I, erm, I mean, do I need to send my regrets?" he asked, not sure how one asked—politely—why, or even whether, one had been invited to a party by people one had never met.

"No need. I'll send out all of the acceptances and regrets. My friends are well aware of your status in the Malfoy family." Mrs. Malfoy blushed and faltered for a moment. "Not like . . . like _that_, of course, just that you and Draco are close . . . close friends, that you are a close friend of the family. Like Severus—oh, god—not like that. I'm not implying . . ." Mrs. Malfoy tossed her head to the side for a moment and smoothed the front of her blouse. "I'm sure you get the idea of what I mean. I just want to make sure you're included in these kinds of decisions. You've always been important to us, to me. Even if I . . ."

Mrs. Malfoy bit her lip—like she'd done on a number of occasions over the course of the last few days.

He was suddenly aware of the stillness in the car. Draco was holding his breath, his fingers poised to turn a page, pretending as if he wasn't listening to what was going on. Harry saw Professor Snape staring at him in the rear view mirror, his gaze darting back to the road only when necessary. They were worried. They knew as well as Harry and Mrs. Malfoy that this show of normalcy was a way to cope with how swiftly the landscape of their lives had changed. Harry smiled inwardly, relieved that he hadn't dreamt everything that had happened over the holiday, relieved that all of them were feeling their ways.

Harry reached out and touched her shoulder, his fingers slipping away quickly. "Thank you for taking care of the regrets and things. If all of that was left up to me and Draco, you'd probably find yourself at few parties, and even then surrounded by bad cabbage salad and unhappy friends."

Professor Snape's sardonic voice leapt into the conversation. "Yes, Narcissa, it is a wise thing that you are here to handle our social calendars, otherwise we would be bereft of scandalous tales of misbegotten vegetables and the great honor of seeing society's highest ranking matrons bedecked in sparkles and feathers make merry with the punch . . . and the wait staff."

Mrs. Malfoy laughed. She smiled at Harry before turning back around. "I'll send our regrets tomorrow," she said before taking up an entirely new conversation with Professor Snape.

Harry returned to staring out of the window, trying to reconcile Mrs. Malfoy's exceedingly frank talk with them about sex and dating and growing up with cabbage salad and holiday parties.

The gnawing sensation in his stomach was still there, he discovered. He wondered when the bottom would drop out. As they passed a crumbling stone wall, he worried over whether—when—Mrs. Malfoy would stop liking him and stop inviting him to fancy parties. He worried about what Ron and Blaise would say. He worried about school, and the Dursleys, and what it was like to live life as a gay teenager. He worried about when Draco would discover that he had nothing to offer him and would find someone else to care about.

A warm hand took his and squeezed, shaking Harry from his thoughts. He looked over. Draco smiled, looked in his mother's direction and rolled his eyes. Harry smiled back. Draco squeezed again before letting go and returning to his book.

"Sanctimonious cow," Draco muttered as he turned another page—referring to Eliot, Harry surmised.

Harry continued watching the landscape rush by, constantly changing as they made their way back.

"Stop pacing. You're giving me a headache," Draco said. He sat on his bed, his back ramrod straight and his ankles crossed as if fused together.

"Can't help it. Blaise and Ron will be here soon. And—and we've got to tell them. God, what are we going to tell them?"

"You're so tense—why don't you come over here and let me work some of that out?"

Harry rolled his eyes at Draco's waggling brows. "Is that all you think about?"

"Yeah. In case it escaped your notice, I'm fifteen—sixteen in a few months. Shagging is pretty much all I think about."

"Well, redirect your energies will you, and help me figure out something clever to say to them."

"Why do we have to tell them, anyway? I mean, it's not like it's any of their business."

"We have to tell them—they live with us. You're insane if you think they won't figure out that something's odd between us. Besides, I remember what your mum said, even if you don't. I'm not risking one of us having to move because she thinks we're sneaking off to each other's beds in the middle of the night."

"You didn't really believe all of that, did you? I mean, Christ, she made us go to the chemist and ask for condoms. She was just overreacting. She's not going to have one of us moved."

"She will. I'm not risking it. We're telling Blaise and Ron what's going on."

"Look, I know what I said, okay? I know I agreed we should tell them. But why now? Why this very minute? Can't it wait?"

"No."

"Yes, it can."

"No, it can't."

"Christ, Harry, what's the big deal? Why do this now? Why are you so intent on this?"

"I just explained to you why." Harry rubbed his hand against his forehead. He was getting a headache. "I don't understand why you don't want to tell them. Are you . . . are you rethinking all of this?"

Draco muttered something under his breath that Harry couldn't hear, but he knew it wasn't flattering. "When are you going to get it through your thick head that I am not rethinking this?"

"Maybe when you're willing to act like you . . .like you . . . like we're . . . you know . . . _like we are_ in front of other people. At least in front of our roommates, if no one else."

"Fine. Tell them, then. I can't stop you. I told you I wanted to wait, but you're insisting otherwise, so I'll leave it to you to tell Ron and Blaise."

"Tell us what?" Blaise asked as he strolled into their room, Ron at his heels.

Harry turned around so quickly, he nearly fell. "When . . . how . . . you're back."

"Yes. I thought we'd established that, what with my question and all. So. What have you got to tell us?" Blaise dropped his valise on the floor and flopped onto his bed.

Ron, Harry noticed, kept his head down and made straight for his bed, his face flushed almost the color of his hair. "You okay, Ron?" Harry asked, stalling for time. Draco was no help whatsoever, sitting cool as he pleased on his bed.

"Fine, Harry. You and Draco have something to t-tell us, do you? Fine, fine. Good stuff."

"Ron?"

Ron undid the zip of his garment bag and started hanging his things.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Blaise asked with a loud groan. "You'd think one of you was about to . . . oh, I don't know, confess some deep dark secret." He sat up straight, a hint of glee in his eyes. "That's it, isn't it? Confession is good for the soul, you know. Hey, Harry, are you going to finally fess up to being a murderer or something? Killed a bloke, didn't you? Some guy trying to pinch your junk, yeah?" Blaise twisted around and addressed Ron. "Isn't that what they say on that cop show? Pinch and junk?"

"Don't know," Ron said, his response terse.

"I think that's right. So, yeah, some bloke tried to pinch your junk, didn't he, Harry? It's all right, you can tell us, you know. We've all be speculating about it, wondering if you were some sort of bad boy, or something." Blaise narrowed his gaze. "Though, come to think of it, you're awfully passive to have been involved in much rough and tumble. No, you strike me more as the scrappy type—defender not bully. Besides, you're far too keen on those plants." Blaise snapped his fingers. "That's it! You grew suspicious plants, didn't you, Harry? Huh? That's it, isn't it?" Blaise asked, chuckling.

"Yes, Blaise. You've figured it out. I'm a drug manufacturing kingpin who's been whisked away to an elite all-boy's boarding school, hiding out from my former partners in crime, whom I turned on to get a better deal. I'm really thirty-three. Did you know?"

Blaise laughed. "Why you sneaky little fuck. And here I thought you were some sweet little boy-man."

"Harry was not a drug dealer, you pathetic oaf," Draco said, obviously not amused by Blaise's bizarre sense of humor.

"He's just trying to take the piss out of me. Calm down," Harry said to Draco. "Cut it out, Blaise. I'm serious—there really is something that I, that we, need to tell you," Harry said, though he realized neither boy was listening to him.

Blaise tapped his finger against his chin. "Hmm, not a drug dealer then. Ooh! A rent boy. You were a rent boy, weren't you? Did Draco find you on the street, tired, hungry, and cold?" Blaise let out a low whistle. "I bet you looked quite fetching all tarted up. Why, Mr. Potter, are there leather trousers at the bottom of your trunk? Did one of your regular johns"—Blaise turned to Ron again, asking, "they call them johns, don't they Ron? In that cop show, yeah?" before turning back to Harry—"Did one of your johns box your ears and toss you out?" Blaise waggled his eyebrows at Harry, teasing. "Is that what's so secret about your past?"

Harry started laughing hysterically at both the ridiculousness of Blaise's imagination and from the tension swirling around the room. It was either laugh or toss furniture around. Laughing seemed the better choice. Unfortunately, not everyone felt that way, Harry discovered.

Draco lunged towards Blaise. "Take that back, you sorry son-of-a-bitch. How dare you say something so vile about Harry!"

"Calm down, lover boy," Blaise said with a laugh, still seeming to think it was all one big joke. "What, you wanted him all for yourself, then?"

Draco screamed as he rushed forward and knocked Blaise onto his bed, spoiling for a fight.

Harry darted forward at the same time Ron did, both pulling Blaise and Draco apart.

"Calm down, you idiots, before you break a fucking nail and whine about having to see Madam in the Hospital Wing," Harry snarled as he tried to jerk Draco away from Blaise.

"What's got into you?" Blaise asked before yelping at a narrowly avoided punch. "Stop it, you psychotic arsehole. I was only joking. Everyone knows Harry's still a blushing virgin—you've made quite sure none of the Collenton girls could touch him, poor bastard."

"He is _not_ a bastard," Draco screamed, still trying to get in a punch or two.

"Fuck you, Zabini. I'm not some—some . . . just because I haven't had sex doesn't mean I can't pound you into the ground," Harry said, tired of having his sexual experience—or lack thereof—be the subject of conversation.

"All of you, stop it! Stop right now!" Ron yelled, finally yanking Blaise back. "Now," Ron finally said. "What's this all about?"

Harry looked at Draco, who was avoiding his gaze. He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to start what was sure to be a very convoluted explanation, when Draco beat him to it.

"You were right, Ron," Draco whispered.

"Right about what?" Harry asked, Blaise echoing his question.

"I was?" Ron asked Draco, ignoring Harry and Blaise.

"Yeah. You were." Draco took a deep breath and took Harry's hand in his. "You were right."

Harry felt a little jolt of electricity as Draco's warm hand curled around his. He smiled and was turning to catch Draco's eye, when Blaise interrupted.

"What the fuck is that?" Blaise asked, stumbling away from Ron and pointing a shaky finger at Harry and Draco's hands.

"It's two hands, Blaise, clasped together—usually a sign of affection in most cultures," Draco said.

"Yeah, I get that, I mean—I mean—fuck, Draco, why is _your_ hand _clasped_ with Harry's? Why the fuck are you holding Harry's hand?"

"Because I want to. You have a problem with that, Zabini?"

"I . . . Christ, Draco, does this mean you're a goddamned shirtlifter? Both of you? I was only kidding before, about the rent boy business. Oh, fucking Christ, I wasn't . . . I mean, that's not true is it?"

"No, it's not, you stupid wanker."

"Well, when the fuck did _this_ happen? Is this some sort of joke? Not funny, guys. Not funny at all."

"It's not a joke," Harry said. "We're, we're . . . well you can see that we're together. We wanted to tell you, that's all."

Blaise shook his head. "I don't . . . fuck all, is this true?"

"Yeah, it is. And as I asked before, you have a problem with it?" Draco asked.

Blaise shook his head again before turning to Ron. "You're not in on this, are you? This really isn't a joke?"

"It's not a joke, Blaise. Think about it. Think of all the times we talked about, well, you know, how weird Draco was around Harry," Ron said.

"Hey!" Draco cried out.

"You know what I mean," Ron said to Draco before turning back to Blaise, who appeared to be thinking about something.

"The thing with Jordan, you mean?" Blaise asked.

"Yeah, partly."

Blaise walked over to Harry and peered at him closely, but backed off when Draco made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat. "I see what you mean," Blaise said, finally. "So. You're both—well, you know—you're, well, like you are."

"We're still the same people, you idiot," Harry said.

Blaise opened his mouth to respond, but Harry cut him off. "Don't forget, I can still pound your limp-wristed, skinny arse into the fucking ground."

"Heel, Bruno. I get it." Blaise effected a voice that sounded like a poor imitation of a cave man. He pointed at Harry and grunted. "You, tough and angry—Grrr—regardless of sexual orientation and love of flowers." Blaise pointed at himself. "Me, ass-pounding material." There was a moment before Blaise's words caught up with him. His eyes widened and he immediately colored as his hand slapped across his mouth. "That is _not_ what I meant," he mumbled through his fingers.

There was silence for a long moment before all four boys broke out into hysterical laughter. Blaise fell backward on his bed, howling. Draco leaned against the wall, holding his arm across his stomach as if that would somehow keep the undignified guffaws from escaping. Ron rolled his eyes and chuckled, though his gaze darted between Harry and Draco. Eventually, the laughter stopped.

Blaise nodded. "So, you're gay," he said, staring at Draco, who now sat crosslegged on the floor.

Draco fidgeted with the hem of his trousers. "I suspect that's right."

"You suspect, or you know? I mean, help me out here, Draco, but how do you go from bedding every girl in sight to holding hands with Potter there?"

Draco shrugged. "Don't know. I just know that . . . that—look, I just know, okay? Let it go."

"You don't have to get so defensive about it."

"I don't, do I? What was it you called me? A fucking shirtlifter?"

"You caught me off guard! One minute we're joking about Harry there being a tarted-up rent boy and the next you're holding his fucking hand, like he's some sort of blushing virgin. Oh that's right, he _is_ one."

"Stop with the sodding virgin jokes," Harry snapped, amid the soft sniggers. "So what if I'm a virgin? A _gay_ virgin, on top of that? What does it say about you that all you can think about is whether I've gotten laid or not?"

"I'm just teasing," Blaise said in between soft chuckles. "And it's not like I have anything else to tease you about, do I? Well I suppose I could joke about you being gay, probably will actually, but the virgin thing is just too much. Besides, we don't know anything about your past, really, and I--" Blaise sobered. "And I suspect that what's there isn't something to joke about."

Harry looked away, missing the shared glance between Ron and Draco. He thought about all of the times he'd seen Blaise needle Ron about Hermione, Draco about his clothes, and realized something. He rolled his eyes. "This is some bizarre way of saying we're . . . that we're friends, right?"

"Course, you prat."

"You aren't going to stop, are you?"

Blaise smiled. "Not bloody likely."

"Well, then . . . okay."

Blaise clapped his hands together. "Brilliant. Now, on to more delicate topics. You two aren't going to kiss and shit here in the room, are you?"

"It's our room too," Draco said.

"Yeah, but I'm really not into blokes and I have a sneaking suspicion that Ron isn't either. So. No kissing and shit in the room. Unless we're, you know, gone for an extended period of time—like the summer holidays—and there's no chance of us walking in on the two of you doing," Blaise made odd gestures with his hands, "whatever it is you do."

"That's fair," Harry said, before Draco could object.

Blaise nodded. "You going to tell the rest of the school?"

"No," Draco said. "Just the two of you, so we'd appreciate if you kept this to yourselves."

"Sure, mate. Whatever you say. Okay, now that this has gotten sufficiently odd and uncomfortable, I'm going to head to the library. I suspect I should have finished my history essay before we left," Blaise said as he gathered his school things and left the room, leaving Ron, Harry, and Draco sitting in a lopsided circle on the floor.

"So, do you think everything's going to be okay? Do you think Blaise is all right with things?" Harry asked Ron.

Ron pursed his lips and tilted his head, thinking. "I can't imagine he wouldn't be all right with everything. I've known Blaise a long time—so has Draco. He jokes around all the time, but he's serious about his friends. Loyal. Really loyal."

"So you think everything's normal?"

"As normal as it can be. It's a bit of a shock, of course. You can't discount that. But don't worry, mate. Things will work out--eventually. Just . . . just be careful, yeah? There are a lot of guys here who aren't as, er, open-minded, I guess."

Draco nodded. "Which is exactly why I didn't want to say anything to begin with."

"There's always going to be someone who objects, someone who's prejudiced, someone who thinks he's better than everyone else. Can't get away from it, really. We can't live our lives based on what other people think of us. We do that too much already," Harry said.

Draco squeezed Harry's hand. "It's going to be fine. Blaise and Ron don't have a problem with it, so we just have to be careful about how we go about things."

Harry snorted. "You mean, we need to line up a few good broom cupboards."

"Something like that," Draco said with a waggle of his brows.

Ron sighed. "Bloody hell, it's like being around Charlie."

"Piss off, you know you don't care. Not if your impassioned speech before the holiday was anything to go by," Draco said.

"It's all true, you know. I'm happy for you. I really hope it works out. It's . . . well, it's a hard life, I expect. Hard way to keep a relationship together. But this one, Harry," Ron motioned towards Draco, "I'm sure you've gathered he's a bit possessive."

"Really? I never would have guessed," Harry deadpanned.

"Sod off, you prat," Draco said with a playful push. "So, what now?"

Ron shrugged. "Up for a game of snap?"

And Harry felt that maybe—just maybe—things might really be okay.

Harry got up the next morning as he always did and headed to the shower. He set his things down and carefully arranged his towel and angled the showerhead so that he had as much cover from the tiled walls as possible. Blaise was chatty in the morning and had this thing about looking people in the eyes as he talked. More than once, Harry had been on the receiving end of flung shampoo suds as Blaise whipped around to ask a question.

He stepped under the spray and started washing. He was halfway through when he realized he was still alone. Biting his lip, he continued cleaning up, dallying much longer than normal, but Blaise never appeared. Sighing, Harry finished up, toweled off, and trudged back to their room.

"Found a broom cupboard on the fifth floor. Doesn't look like it's been used in ages. I think we should give it a thorough inspection after breakfast," Draco whispered in Harry's ear as he dropped down beside him in the dining hall.

Harry didn't look up as he wended his fork through his scrambled eggs. It had been three weeks since he and Draco had come out to Blaise and Ron. Not only had Harry showered alone every morning, but Blaise had taken to changing in the washroom. Even Ron seemed a bit hesitant around them. Only Draco didn't seem to notice what was going on. He was far too focused on the upcoming holiday and kissing and finding long-forgotten broom cupboards in which to explore.

"Harry," Draco said with a nudge. "Did you hear what I said? Unused broom cupboard. Fifth floor. Nice and roomy."

"I'm tired of ducking into cupboards," Harry mumbled.

"Well we can't go back to the stable, now can we? Hagrid almost caught us last time and Eloise looks at me funny. It's unnerving."

Harry snorted. "Eloise is a horse, in case you've forgotten."

"She still looks at me funny. Cupboards are better. More private. Less cold and there's no hay strewn about. It was quite difficult to explain to McLaggen why I had straw stuck to the back of my shirt the other day."

"God, I hate that prat," Harry said, having moved to smashing the eggs with his fork. "Do you know what he said to me two weeks ago? Do you? He called me 'stable boy.'"

"Well, you were in Buckbeak's stall, weren't you? I mean, it could have been an honest mistake."

"Come off of it. He knew exactly who I was. We've only walked past each other about a million times."

"I'm sure he was just joking."

"I don't know what's worse, that I know you really believe that, or the simple fact that you do."

Draco sighed. "Look, I don't know what's had you in such a mood lately, but I was looking forward to doing . . . . you know . . . with you for a little bit. It's been forever."

"It's been three days, you stupid prat. That's not forever."

"Yeah, well, it's Saturday, we've nothing to do, and there's a perfectly good cupboard waiting for us."

"Why does it always have to be cupboards," Harry groused, giving up on his eggs and flinging his fork down. "Sorry. I know I've been moody, I just. . . . I don't think Blaise is taking things as well as he pretended to."

"Okay. Not sure where that's coming from."

"It's . . .he . . . never mind. It doesn't matter, I guess."

"He'll come around. Promise. He's just . . . well I imagine it's a bit like if Hermione were suddenly living with us, you know?"

"I'm not going to jump him. Surely he knows that."

"Yes, he probably does, but . . . sodding hell, Harry, just let it go, yeah? Stop _thinking_ about it so much. Let's talk about better things, like New Year's at Mum's house. I convinced her that we were good little boys whom could be left alone for the evening. So, nothing to stop us from kissing all night on the sofa. I might even be able to wangle a bit of champagne."

Harry grinned. "You're pathetic."

"Watch it, or I might be disinclined to share my champagne with you. How about that broom cupboard, then?"

Harry laughed. "Yeah, okay."

It was the day before the winter holidays. Harry got up early—just like every morning—and trudged towards the washroom. He didn't arrange his towel or angle the showerhead to shield him from view. There wasn't any point, really. He stepped under the warm spray and sighed, getting lost in the rhythmic tumble of water.

"Haven't you learned to ride, yet?" came somewhere from Harry's right. He yelped in surprise and almost lost his footing on the slick tile. He turned and squinted. It was Blaise.

"Blaise?"

"Who else would it be? So, when are you going to learn to ride? Draco must be an awful teacher."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Blaise twisted around and stepped forward, flinging soap sods at Harry in the process. He pointed at Harry's hip. "That huge bruise. Fell off of another horse, did you?" Blaise made a tsking sound and leaned forward as if examining the bruise more closely.

Harry started, shuffling away to avoid Blaise's gaze. "I was doing a jump. Unfortunately, Eloise wasn't," Harry said through clenched teeth.

"Jumping already? And here I thought Draco would force you to do that mamby-pamby dressage business he's so caught up in. Just as well that you're not on the team. That McLaggen bloke can be a bit much. I don't know how Draco stands him."

"McLaggen is an arse," Harry said, still feeling awkward with Blaise washing right in front of him, facing him.

"Oh, so you've had a run in with him, have you? Figured you wouldn't have run into him and his lot."

"Saw him in the stables. I was brushing Buckbeak. He called me 'stable boy.'"

Blaise broke out into sharp barks of laughter, leaning against the low ledge that separated his stall from Harry's. "He didn't! Classic stuff. Did you come out swinging? Threaten to pound his—let's see, how did that go? Oh, right—did you threaten to pound his limp-wristed skinny arse into the ground?"

Harry laughed, relaxing. "No. I reserve that for my closest friends."

"Pay no attention to him, Harry. McLaggen's an idiot. Always swaggering around school, wearing his riding breaches as if—at any moment—there could be a dressage emergency requiring his immediate presence at the stables."

Harry laughed.

"Do you know what I heard him say the other day? And mind you, he was being dead serious. He said, 'I don't understand why this school has a scholarship policy. Poor people work in factories and things. What good is English Literature to them, then?' Idiot."

Harry couldn't agree more, beginning to dislike McLaggen more and more.

Blaise stepped under the shower, washing away the soap and shampoo suds. "God, I've missed these early morning showers. I've, er, been sleeping in a bit. Staying up too late, or something. Won't be doing that anymore, I don't think."

Harry smiled to himself. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"So are you spending the holidays with Draco and his mum?"

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Skiing in Austria with my cousins. I go every year."

"What about your mum and dad?"

Blaise shrugged. "They're both so busy. It works out better this way. Besides, I'll spend my summer with Mum traveling around Greece. We haven't done that in a few years and decided it was time to go back. What about you? Any plans yet for the summer?"

Harry went cold. He hadn't thought about the summer. Would he have to go back to the Dursleys? He couldn't ask Mrs. Malfoy to house him for an entire summer, could he? He dismissed his thoughts. He wasn't going to let anything bother him. Things were looking up. Things were returning to normal. He'd sort out the summer later. "Erm, no plans yet."

"Well, I'm sure something will turn up." Blaise turned off the shower and grabbed his towel, drying off before slipping into his robe. "Have a great holiday, if I don't see you. I'm leaving right after my morning classes. See you in January," he called as he sauntered out of the washroom.

"See you," Harry called out, smiling.

Harry sat on the sofa, wrapped up in his favorite green blanket, reading one of the botany books Professor Snape had given him for Christmas, and drinking the warm cider Mrs. Malfoy had insisted on making before she left for her New Year's Eve party. He glanced up when he felt Draco flop onto the sofa, his face screwed up with petulance. Harry raised his eyebrows in question.

"She only left us enough champagne for one glass each. One glass! Honestly, what does she think we're going to do?"

"Perhaps get drunk on champagne and rut away in her living room? Though why she would ever suspect that we might be tempted to do such a thing, I have no idea."

"Piss off," Draco said as Harry chuckled. "Well, at least it's one glass. We'll have to save it for midnight, I guess."

"You can't honestly have expected her to leave us with a bottle of champagne. I'm surprised she doesn't have someone popping around every thirty minutes or so, asking for sugar and things, just to check up on us."

"I suppose you're right." Draco stared listlessly around the room before focusing on Harry's book. "Is that one of the books Uncle Severus gave you?"

"Yeah. It's great. It's all about this new theory of cross-germination and—well, you get the idea."

"Hmm. So, did you . . . was Christmas all right? You were . . . you were really quiet."

Harry put his book down and unconsciously drew the blanket around him tighter. "Christmas was great. Did I forget to thank your mum for a gift? Bloody hell," Harry swore under breath, "I forgot something didn't I? It's—well, I mean, there were just so many of them. I thought for sure--"

"Calm down, Harry. You didn't forget a thank you. You just seemed so . . ." Draco shrugged. "It was hard to see you so . . . unsure, like you'd never had a Christmas before. And then I thought about it and I realized that you hadn't."

Harry sighed. "That's over now," he said, refusing to think about the uncertainty of the upcoming summer. "Look, I don't want everything I have now to be marked by what I didn't have before. It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't."

"But--"

"I can't let it go, not if you don't, if your mum doesn't, fuck, even if Professor Snape doesn't. Christmas was great. I had fun. And now it's New Year's and we're alone. Do you really want to waste that time talking about stupid things that don't matter anymore?"

Draco cast a furtive glance at Harry. "I suppose there's merit to that," he said slowly.

"I was hoping you'd feel that way." Harry tossed away the blanket and moved closer to Draco. "There are so many other things we could talk about," he whispered as he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Draco's. "So many other things we could do," he said as he ran his fingers through Draco's hair, settling his hands so that they cupped the back of Draco's head. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Draco's again, chaste kisses over and over, and he continued teasingly until their mouths were mashed against each other, open and wet, and they were kissing hard. Their hands roamed across each other's torsos, over their backs as they moaned and gasped and murmured incoherent endearments.

Draco took command of the kiss, pushing Harry to lie on his back. Draco followed him down, kissing and nipping and licking all the way until he was settled on top of Harry.

They continued kissing, both losing themselves to the sensation. Harry shifted and inadvertently bucked his hips, coming into contact with Draco's hips and his very hard cock. Draco jumped a bit—surprised—before closing his eyes and moaning.

"Holy fuck," Harry exhaled, as a frisson of energy burned through him.

"Let's do that again. Feels good when we do this. Didn't know—so good," Draco said, emphasizing his point by flexing his hips so that his erection rubbed against Harry's. "God, you're just as hard as me."

Harry's hips flexed again, startled by the feel of Draco's hips grinding against his own. He shuddered and flexed again, desperate for whatever was making him feel so good.

"God, you're so fucking hot," Draco murmured as he flexed his hips again, pressing against Harry.

Harry looked up and gasped. The way Draco was looking at him made him feel a funny sort of flapping feeling at the bottom of his stomach. His hands twined around Draco's back, pulling him closer as he flexed his hips up again and again, trying to find some sense of rhythm. He didn't know what he was doing exactly, only that he wanted more of whatever they were doing.

Draco pushed away and snaked his hand in between their bodies, settling on Harry's crotch. Harry's breath caught as the hand unbuttoned the fly of his trousers. Harry trembled.

"I want to try something new," Draco whispered as his warm hand dug into Harry's undershorts and wrapped around his cock.

Harry cried out and jerked up in response. "What?" he started to ask, but stopped as the hand began moving up and down, up and down, up and down. He couldn't help himself as he started rutting against it.

"Not so hard," Harry muttered. The hand loosened a bit. "Better," Harry said, shivering at the little jolts of electricity coursing through him.

Quick as it came, the hand was gone, leaving Harry feeling bereft. "What," he said again, before a finger across his lips silenced him. Harry opened his eyes. He cocked his head to the side and watched in fuzzy detachment as Draco undid his own trousers and pulled his cock free. He turned and looked at Harry. Harry gasped, Draco's possessive gaze pinning him.

Wordlessly, Draco resettled himself on top of Harry. Harry could feel the fine tremor of Draco's muscles. It was Draco's only display of hesitancy, as his hands moved deftly with his gaze still intent on Harry's face.

"Ah," Harry cried as Draco squashed one of his balls. "Budge over a bit."

"Sorry, about that." Draco shifted. "Better?"

"Yeah," Harry said, as he shifted as well. "Just what kind of experiment is this?" Harry asked in between gasps, trying to seem smooth and collected.

Draco stilled and leaned down. "The exciting kind," he whispered, his breath ghosting across Harry's parted lips.

Harry pushed up and licked his lips. He started to say something—what, he wasn't sure—but it didn't matter, because the next thing he knew, Draco's lips were attached to his an instant before they both started moving.

Harry's body arched up and his head dug back into the sofa. Moving like this—their cocks rubbing against each other, uninhibited, had to be what heaven was like.

"Like that?" Draco whispered.

"Yeah. Fuck, yeah," Harry replied in a breathy moan.

Draco gave Harry a crooked little smile—one that was unguarded and nervous.

Their movements were awkward. They had to stop and start as adjustments had to be made. Many "sorrys" and "s'okays" were mumbled between them. Despite all of that, the feeling of their cocks rubbing against each other was amazing. Hands wound into each other's hair, pulling.

"Oh, fuck," Draco cried, feeling his release coming.

Harry wasn't quite there, but he knew it wouldn't be long.

"Can't wait," Draco wheezed.

"Don't," Harry said, having the sudden, inexplicable desire to attack Draco's neck with nipping kisses.

"Oh, fuck," Draco cried again, arching into Harry's mouth, into Harry's body. He shuddered, his eyes rolled back and his hands clutched at Harry's hair hard enough for Harry to hiss in pain. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," Draco mumbled, but unable to relax his hands or stop himself from coming.

Harry felt something warm spurt all over him, making the movements between their two cocks much, much better. He slid into that frictionless glide faster and faster, panting as Draco still clung to him. He came in a glorious rush of heat and electricity, his body jerking as the waves of his orgasm flooded him.

Draco released his grip on Harry's hair and dropped bonelessly against him.

"Oof," Harry cried at the sudden weight, still panting from his own release. "That was, that was," he said after few minutes.

Draco shushed him and shook his head. He rolled off Harry and fished around for something to clean up with. Finding nothing, he wriggled out of his trousers and pants, wiped himself off with them before tossing them aside, and gestured for Harry to do the same. Soon, both boys were lying on the sofa, naked from the waist down, and feeling a bit dazed.

Harry was on his back, Draco on his side, his head propped in his hand. His free hand carded through Harry's hair. Harry could feel the small tremors in Draco's fingers. He turned his head to look at Draco, who still bore the intense gaze from before, though it was slightly hooded now.

"Draco," Harry began, before the clock on the mantle began to chime. It was midnight. A new year had begun. Harry had never imagined so much would change in his life in so little time. But here he was, mostly naked, sated, and feeling warmer than he ever recalled feeling.

Draco leaned down and kissed him gently. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," Harry replied, liking the way the new one had started.


	24. McLaggen's a Prat

**Author's Note:**Thank you, thank you to Sansa for the fabulous beta work. Also, a deeply felt thank you to all of you who read my little story and leave such wonderful reviews. I do wish I were able to keep up with them a bit better. Please know, though, that I appreciate them all.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Chapter 24: McLaggen's a Prat**

Draco had a style of kissing to fit every mood. There were soft, feathery kisses that tickled Harry's skin and made him want to do stupid things, like giggle or lie tangled with Draco on warm, summer grass. The demanding ones bruised Harry's lip and made him pant and kiss back with equal force. And then there were the long, slow ones; lips sliding against lips, tongues slipping in and out. Nothing felt more perfect. Those kisses made Harry forget things for a little while. He liked forgetting things—like where he'd go at the end of term, whether he'd get to stay at Wolsford. When Draco would wake up and realize that Harry had nothing to offer him.

Fingers sliding across his cheek startled Harry from his thoughts.

"I'm beginning to think you like having spots of dirt all over your face," Draco said, laughter in his voice.

Harry leaned away from Draco's fingers. "It's just a bit of dirt and I'm in the stables doing work. I don't much care if I've got a smudge here or there."

"No you don't, do you?"

"Never have."

Draco's fingers skimmed across Harry's cheek one more time before retreating. "Maybe one day you'll see the error of your ways, but I suppose for now I can deal with it."

"Didn't know putting up with me was such a chore," Harry said, amused.

"You're a prat."

"Can't help it. You're far too influential."

"Yet I can't get you to realize how good you look when you aren't all mussed and dirty."

"Hmm," Harry responded, resisting the urge—on principle—to rub the dirt on his face away. Maybe he should pay more attention to what he looked like. Would Draco like him more? But, really, why should it matter what he looked like? Why was Draco so interested? Was he embarrassed by Harry? Was that why he acted so differently when there were other people around?

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked.

"Just stuff. Start of term, my Botany project." _Wondering when the bottom is going to drop out of this stolen life_. "You know, the usual."

Draco kissed him—a soft, feathery one. Shivers danced up and down Harry's spine. "Don't think about it. You'll do fine. Classes don't start back until tomorrow."

"Yeah, I know. I just--"

"Just nothing. Honestly, Harry, you've nothing to worry about. Is this what's had you all in a twist this past week? Classes? You've been worse than a fishwife."

"Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean. You've been all moody and argumentative. Except, of course, when you're attacking me for a quick shag. You must have really liked what we did on New Year's."

Harry looked away. He could feel himself blushing "It was brilliant. You know it was."

"Good to know that's not the issue. So tell me, Potter, what's got you on edge?"

"Nothing in particular," Harry mumbled. "Just . . . stuff. Like I said before."

"Well, perhaps a proper shag will take your mind of things."

Harry's lips curled into a lazy grin. Shagging sounded like a bit of alright to him. He grabbed Draco's shirt and pulled him forward, kissing him hard. "You think that, do you?"

"Yeah. Everyone's at dinner. Let's go back to our room. We can shut the curtains and practice coming silently," Draco said, grinding himself against Harry.

Harry groaned. "Don't think I can make it that far." He canted his hips, his erection brushing Draco's.

"Fuck, Harry."

"That's the general idea," Harry murmured before leaning in for another kiss.

The door to the stable banged open. Harry and Draco sprang apart, their erections wilting in their panic to set themselves to rights.

"Hello? Anyone here?"

Heavy footsteps came closer. Draco and Harry scrambled to make themselves presentable. Harry tried to share a conspiratorial grin with Draco, but Draco avoided his gaze, standing stiffly to the side. Harry opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong when a swaggering boy came into view. He wore riding breeches and boots as if it were perfectly normal to do so at half seven on a Sunday evening in January. It was that prat, Cormac McLaggen.

"Ah, there you are, Draco," McLaggen said, ignoring Harry. "Zabini thought you might be headed this way. Checking on the horses, I see. Good to see someone else takes the dressage team as seriously as I do."

McLaggen stepped in front of Harry as if he were invisible. Draco, he noticed, did nothing to correct the slight. Harry kicked at a nearby bale of hay, purposefully trying to make at least one of them acknowledge him. Neither did.

"Now, we need to decide what to do with that Davies chap. His seat's all wrong and the lunge-line isn't helping," McLaggen said in an overly serious voice.

"Now's not really a good time. How about later?"

"But we're both here. Now's the perfect time."

"I was in the middle something. How about later?"

"Yeah, he was talking to me," Harry said, irritated at being talked about as a "thing."

McLaggen swung around, eyeing Harry up and down. "Oh, it's Potter," he said, as if just noticing that Harry was standing less than a foot away from him.

McLaggen turned back to Draco with a sniff, dismissing Harry with little more than a glance. "You can talk to the stable boy anytime you want. This is an _emergency_, Draco."

"Stop calling me stable boy," Harry said, frantically trying to catch Draco's gaze. He saw Draco wince and felt a cold shock.

Draco—still steadfastly avoiding Harry's gaze—rolled his eyes and huffed. "Oh, all right," he said to McLaggen. They turned as if to leave.

Harry didn't know what was happening. "Hey, wait a minute. Draco and I were talking. Your poncy little emergency can wait."

McLaggen turned back around. "No one's talking to you. Go back to whatever it is you scholarship students do when you're not scurrying around, gasping in wonder at the sight of the school's crystal goblets and things." McLaggen looked him up and down again, his eyes resting on Harry's face where the smudges of dirt were. "The Board of Governors really needs to reconsider this wave of charity," he said under his breath before turning back to Draco.

Again, Draco said nothing. Did nothing. Harry's hands balled into tight fists. "Fuck you, McLaggen."

"Case in point. Come on, Draco, let's leave Potter to his curry brushes and hay bales." McLaggen snorted. "Probably better than anything he grew up with."

Harry felt hot and sick. They were ignoring him. Anger surged through him, roaring in his ears.

"I mean seriously, Draco. I get that Potter here's a little project of yours, but you have to put the work aside on occasion."

Harry's gaze darted over to Draco, pleading silently, but Draco was staring at the floor, a frown on his face. Every fear he had about Draco's intentions—his mum's, Professor Snape's—came to the fore in one gut-wrenching rush.

A strangled cry sounded deep in Harry's throat. He sprang forward, tackling McLaggen.

"What the bloody hell?" Harry heard McLaggen shout before they landed hard on the floor, Harry on top.

"Get off of me, you sodding little savage!"

Harry threw a punch, his knuckles grazing McLaggen's temple. "I am not a fucking project, or a fucking stable boy, you bloody tosser! Or—or a savage!"

"Stop it! Both of you, stop it," Draco screamed, pulling Harry off of McLaggen. "What's wrong with you?" Draco asked, shaking Harry's shoulders hard.

"And you," Draco said, pointing at McLaggen, "stop being such a wanker."

McLaggen got to his feet. He smoothed his riding breeches. Harry scrambled to his feet as well, breathing hard and scowling.

"I ought to report you," McLaggen said.

"No one's reporting anybody. Think about it, you report Harry and Harry will be forced to tell the Headmaster about your anti-scholarship sentiment. I seem to recall you getting a dressing down for that last year," Draco said.

McLaggen sneered at Harry and Harry made to dart forward. Only Draco's stern gaze stopped him.

"Honestly, you're both idiots," Draco whispered under his breath.

Those words hurt Harry more than he cared to admit.

"Now. Cormac, let's discuss your bloody emergency back at the school. Harry, I'll be back later."

"Don't bother," Harry said and turned away, grabbing a curry brush and heading for Buckbeak's stall.

"Oi, Potter," McLaggen called.

Harry tensed, refusing to turn around.

"Anytime you want to fight like a civilized human being instead of an ignorant Neanderthal, let me know. I'm sure we can arrange something."

"Shut it, McLaggen," Draco said.

Harry heard them both leave, McLaggen chuckling all the way. He could feel the hot rush of anger boil away, leaving only insecurity in its wake. "Great, Harry. Just fucking great."

"Why do you insist on doing that oaf's job?"

The _shush, shush, shush_ of Harry's curry brush stopped for a moment before resuming. He was surprised Draco had come back. "Mr. Hagrid's not an oaf. Don't call him that. I asked to be allowed to brush Buckbeak. I like it, and if it's too offensive to your delicate sensibilities, you can bloody well get out."

Harry heard Draco's sigh. He swallowed hard and kept brushing.

"That was really stupid, you know. McLaggen could have gone to the Headmaster, regardless of what I said."

Harry had thought about that. He'd thought about everything, including how he'd come dangerously close to fucking up his life because he was angry. Scared. "Whatever," Harry said.

"Christ, Harry. He could have hurt you."

Anything else Draco would have said was cut off by the stamp of Buckbeak's hooves. "Easy, boy," Harry murmured, running his hand across Buckbeak's flank.

"You indulge that horse, you know. Though, come to think of it, he's more beast than horse."

"He is not. He's just spirited, is all," Harry said, continuing to run his hand across Buckbeak's flank.

Harry felt like he and Buckbeak were kindred spirits of a sort. He understood what it was like to have uncontrolled emotion running through him, whose first instinct was to react rather than process. He understood what it was like to try and restrain himself and act the way people around him wanted him to act. Sometimes, though, Harry wanted to stamp his hooves and snort and bite—a little bit like he'd done earlier. That, of course, as Draco had reminded him, was a ticket straight out of Wolsford and back to the Dursleys.

"He _is_ a beast. Did you know that he nearly threw McLaggen at the end of term. Idiot decided he wanted to ride him, said that he was the only one who could train him into a proper dressage horse." Draco snorted. "Obviously he was wrong."

Harry wasn't ready to forgive and forget. "McLaggen's a menace."

"He's just a prat, like most of the guys here."

Harry whirled around, his face flushed with anger. "No one else calls me stable boy, or a fucking pro--savage."

"Sodding hell, Harry, he's just another idiot in a sea of idiots. You really need to let it go. He's a prat. End of story."

"Whatever. Fine. I didn't even want to talk about him."

"No, you just wanted to beat him into a bloody pulp."

"So what if I did?"

"What's got into you?"

"You didn't even defend me. You let him talk to me, let him treat me, like I was nothing. Like I was worse than nothing. Is that—is that what you think of me?"

"You let him get to you, Harry. You were completely out of control and out of line."

"I was out of line? _I was out of line_?"

"You tackled him like some sort of street hooligan because he insulted you. Yeah. I'd say you were out of line."

"Maybe I was just upset because my goddamned _boyfriend_ couldn't be arsed to defend me."

Draco took several steps forward, a feverish glint in his eyes. "I told you we can't tell anyone about that. They wouldn't understand, Harry."

"And that means you couldn't defend me?" Harry swiped at his face, turning his back to Draco, refusing to let him see how much he'd been hurt.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. As a general rule, I don't get involved in stupid little spats. I'm . . . Christ, Harry, this is all new to me too, you know. It's not like you're some girl whose honor I have to defend or something. It was just McLaggen, being McLaggen. I know you know that, so what's really going on?"

Harry's shoulders slumped, the renewed anger bleeding out of him, leaving him feeling lost and vulnerable. "It's. . . . Nothing."

"Liar."

Harry wanted to tell him about being afraid of having to go back to the Dursleys, about feeling sure the last seven months or so had been nothing more than a holiday. He wanted to tell him that McLaggen was right, he didn't belong, and that that was why he'd gotten so angry. But he wouldn't say any of those things. He wasn't some weak-willed, girly chap who couldn't handle life. So he said nothing, tucking away his fears.

"Look, let's just forget about what happened earlier. Let's just go to dinner," Draco said.

"No. I told you I had a job to do. We scholarship students understand hard work."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Take it any way you like."

Draco stared for a long moment before shaking his head. "Fine. See you."

Harry watched him leave, the curry brush dangling from his fingers.

&&&&

Harry stifled a yawn as he glanced around the room, silently appraising the other botany projects. Jason DuPrez's graft looked rather sickly in Harry's opinion, as did George Smith's. He glanced down at his own, wondering again if there was a slight color variation in the leaf veining that shouldn't be there.

"God, I'm tired," Smith said, slumped against the wall.

There were a few murmurs of assent, but mostly the Colloquium class couldn't be arsed to respond. Instead they stumbled around half-awake. Harry was half-awake as well, but not because he'd been up all night finishing his journal, or putting the final touches on his project. No, he'd been thinking about Draco, and the spectacular fight they'd had the previous day. The third one in less than a week.

"Christ, he's a menace," Thomas Wright grumbled as he sat down on the lab stool next to Harry.

Harry didn't miss Wright's obvious glance at his project.

"Who are you talking about?" Harry asked, pushing his planter to the side.

"Old Snapey, of course."

"Look here, Wright," Harry began, intending to defend Professor Snape, but Wright continued as if Harry hadn't said a word.

"He just had to set the project due the first week. At eight o'clock in the bloody morning on our first Saturday back, no less. We don't even have class on Saturdays."

Harry closed his mouth. A Saturday morning class really was quite cruel, Harry thought. "Better that than last Monday."

"I suppose. Wouldn't have put it past him, though," Wright said leaning back, making no attempts to hide his assessing stare of Harry's project.

Harry scowled at him.

"Not bad, Potter, but did you see Coatfield's? He'll make us all look bad."

A moment of panic surged through Harry. "No, I haven't. It's good?"

Wright nodded in that irritatingly grave manner he had. "Best get to my seat. See you at study group next Monday."

"See you," Harry said, trying to catch a glimpse of Dennis Coatfield's project.

"Harry!" Neville cried, stumbling as he made his way over to their lab table. "I was up half the night finishing my journal. Bet you've had yours done for ages, though."

Harry craned his neck, still trying to glimpse Coatfield's project. "Er, I was up late, too."

"I'll be glad to get this done. My nerves are shot."

Harry resisted the urge to chuckle at that. He quite liked Neville, but had come to realize that "Nervous Neville" wasn't just a schoolboy taunt. "I know what you mean."

Harry sighed. Too many people surrounded Coatfield and he couldn't get a proper look.

"Your graft looks really good," Neville said.

Harry turned at the compliment, shifting his focus.

"Thanks. Your project looks good, too."

Neville blushed. "Eh, I don't know about that. Your stem's nice and straight. Mine's a bit wonky, I think."

Wonky wasn't the half of it. Neville's graft was thriving, but twisted at such an odd angle that Harry couldn't conceive of how he'd done it. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Thanks, Harry, but it _is_ a bit wonky."

Harry did chuckle then. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

"Hey, a bunch of us are going to the village for that cinema festival tonight. The school's arranged transportation and everything. Want to come?"

"Er, thanks, Nev, but I've got, um, plans already."

"Cottage party, right?"

Harry's face heated in embarrassment. "Yeah. Erm, sorry."

"Don't look so apologetic. I've long given up on being invited to one of those. I'm just surprised you're going, is all. Thought you might be feeling a bit lonely tonight."

"What do you mean? Why would you think that?"

"Well . . . I didn't mean to—I wasn't spying, or anything, I just . . . well you and Malfoy get pretty loud when you get into it. I just assumed . . . I mean, considering you were fighting, I just assumed you weren't going."

A new kind of panic surged through Harry. "It was just—we're just—what did you hear?"

Neville shrugged, keeping his eyes on the lab table. "Only that you didn't want to go. I agree with you, by the way. Cormac McLaggen is a complete wanker. I can see why you wouldn't want to go to party when he's going as well." Neville hesitated and looked up. "If you don't want to go, why are you agreeing to? You don't strike me as the sort to follow Malfoy's orders."

"He didn't order me, Neville. He just . . ." Harry scrubbed his face. Everything was so jumbled. Nothing made sense. "He just made a good point about trying to get along with difficult people."

"Why do you care, though? I mean, so you don't get along with McLaggen, hate him even. Why would Draco care about that?"

Harry was saved from having to respond by Professor Snape's impressive sweep into the room.

"I trust all of you have your projects?" Professor Snape asked.

"Yes, Professor," they said.

"Good. Present them, please. Project to your left, journal to your right."

There was a mad scramble to present journals and small planters of peach wood with grafted almond branches.

Professor Snape stalked around the room, scrutinizing each project, making unkind assessments of those he didn't like, and nodding at those he did. Coatfield, Harry noted, received an exceptionally sharp nod. Before long Professor Snape made his way to their table.

"Will wonders never cease, Mr. Longbottom. Your graft appears to be thriving."

Neville beamed.

"Amazing, considering the contorted angle at which you've grafted this poor little almond branch. Why, it looks as if it's staining against invisible bonds, a captive slave of the sturdier peach wood."

There was a titter of laughter. Neville crumpled a bit, and Harry's face flamed with embarrassment for his friend.

"Do take care, Mr. Longbottom. What we do here is as much art as science. You must possess a certain aesthetic sensibility if you wish to excel."

"Yes, Professor," Neville said, staring at the lab table.

Professor Snape turned to Harry's project, his cool gaze assessing every leaf vein and tendril. He nodded his head sharply. Harry let go the breath he'd been holding.

"The graft appears stable and well-formed. The color in the veining is a bit off, however. You'll need to watch the nutrient intake over the next few weeks to stave off rejection. Otherwise . . . this is passable, Mr. Potter."

Harry refused to give into the grin threatening to cleave his face in half. "Yes, Professor," he said in a breathy rush.

Professor Snape's lips quirked at the corners of his mouth. He strode to the front of the class, his arms resting on the mammoth podium.

"You must take extra care in this phase of the grafting. We do not want rejection. Before leaving today, please take note of Mr. Coatfield's project, which is by far the best of the group."

Harry resisted the urge to scowl.

"For my assistants—Mr. Coatfiled, Mr. Wright, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Longbottom—if you fail to complete this stage of the project, you will be stripped of assistant status and I will have to seriously consider whether to keep you in the Colloquium."

Neville made a sound in the back of his throat that conjured the image of a pig being strangled. Neville nearly knocked over his grafting project in his haste to cover his mouth with his hand, but Harry reached out and kept it steady.

"All right there, Nev?" Harry whispered as Professor Snape droned on about the precariousness of grafting.

"Yeah. S-sorry about that. Just got . . . he's just so . . . so intimidating."

Harry gave Neville a warm smile and returned his attention to Professor Snape.

"Now, before we begin the next part of our project, I wish to share an opportunity with you. I have received a summer research fellowship to study a new species of flora in Chile that has appeared spontaneously. The research required will study whether this particular specimen is new or merely one that has adapted in response to changing climate patterns."

Professor Snape paused, his eyes skimming over every student. Harry thought they rested on him a bit longer than the other students.

"I am permitted two assistants and will be choosing them from this group."

Excited, furious whispers broke out, sounding like a swarm of adolescent bees on their way to cross-pollinate for the first time. To Harry, Professor Snape's words sounded like the answer to a silent prayer.

"Quiet."

The buzzing stopped.

"My decision will be based on your project work and regular coursework. I must stress that this will be hard work and much will be expected of my assistants. The lodging will be substandard, the meals poor at best, and the work will be dirty, hot, and unrelenting. But on the other hand, if any of you are serious about botany as a profession, a research opportunity like this is unparalleled. Anyone in this class may express interest, not just my current assistants. To that end, I expect each of you to let me know by next class whether you'd like to be considered."

Harry didn't hear much of what Professor Snape said after that. He was already dreaming of a summer in Chile.

&&&&

Harry made slow work of gathering his books and project. He waited until everyone was on their way out before approaching Professor Snape.

"Er, Professor Snape?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"I just . . . I just wanted you to know that I'd like to be considered. For the research project, I mean."

Harry swallowed as Professor Snape stared back at him, his expression blank.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely."

Professor Snape hesitated. "The work will be very, very hard and, to some extent, tedious. This will not be a holiday."

Harry snorted. "Since when are any of my summers holidays," he said under his breath before he could think.

"There is that. In fact, I want to make sure that this isn't about the Dursleys."

"Of course not. I want to be a botanist. I—I want this opportunity. I work hard and I think I'd be good. A good assistant, I mean."

"I have no doubt of your work ethic or your career desires. I just want to make sure you've thought this through."

"Well, I have."

"Do not take that tone with me."

"Sorry, sir."

Professor Snape paused, staring at Harry again with that blank expression of his that made Harry want to apologize for something and stand in the corner. "Very well," he said eventually. "You will be considered."

"Thank you, sir." Harry turned to leave.

"Harry, I know you're worried about this summer, but you shouldn't be. Things will work out, no matter. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Harry smiled, thinking he did understand. "Yes, sir. Of course."

&&&&

"Red, or black?" Blaise asked, stripping off the black shirt he'd just been wearing and pointing to the red one in his hand.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're gay and you're supposed to know these things."

Harry looked down at his rumpled tee-shirt and back at Blaise, as if to say, "You can't be serious."

Blaise shook the red shirt at him and canted his head in response.

"Do I look like someone who knows these things? Just pick one and put it on."

Blaise sighed, tossing the red shirt to the floor and putting the black one back on. He turned back and looked Harry and up and down. "You're not going like that, are you?"

"Why is everyone so concerned about the way I dress?"

"Someone's knickers are in a twist."

"Maybe it's because you're asking stupid questions. I doubt anyone's going to care about whether you wear a red or black shirt."

Blaise laughed. "Yeah, maybe. But seriously, Potter, go shower, or something. My brother will be here in half an hour."

"Thinking about not going at all," Harry said, not looking up from the book he was trying to read.

"Fuck, Potter. Not this again. Look, just don't drink your weight in alcohol, and you'll be fine."

Harry turned a page. "It's not that."

"What is it, then, because we're supposed to leave soon."

"I just don't want to go."

"This isn't about that fight you and Draco had yesterday in Bloomsbury Hall, is it?"

"For fuck's sake, was the whole school there or something?"

"What?"

"Nothing," Harry said, tossing his book to the side. "Not important."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"You know, you can be a right bastard sometimes."

Harry grinned, making sure his lips curled back from his teeth. "Part of my charm."

"No wonder Draco likes you, then. But seriously, Potter, is this about that fight? Or any of the others you've had this week?"

Harry's fingers plowed through the folds of his green blanket. "Yes, and no."

Blaise pounced on Harry's bed, the expression on his face eager. "Tell me the yes part, then. Draco won't say a word—just stomps around and sneers at birds and things."

"I just—I dunno. Part of it's the McLaggen thing."

"I told you, McLaggen's brother and my brother are good friends. The party would have been cancelled if I hadn't invited that wanker. Killed me to do it."

"Yeah, I know. Draco told me all about it."

"So all of this is about McLaggen?"

Harry hesitated. "I . . . no. I suppose not."

"What? What is it?"

"Draco says no one can know we're together, and I get that, I guess, but that doesn't mean that I want to spend the night watching all of those little trollops hanging all over him."

Blaise clapped his hands. "I knew you'd be the jealous type!"

"Are you sure you're not gay, Blaise? You're awfully poncy."

"Ha! Thought I'd fall for that, did you? You should know by now, Potter, that it takes a lot more to get me off track than a slur against my manhood."

"Actually, I wasn't talking about the size of your cock."

Blaise laughed, falling back against the bedpost. "Good show, Potter. Finally catching on. And you didn't even stumble over the word cock." Blaise pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "My little Harry's all grown up. He can say cock without blushing or stammering."

Harry pushed Blaises's shoulder, trying very hard not to chuckle. "Shut it, you perv. I'm trying to be serious, here."

Blaise straightened up, all sign of playfulness gone. "Yeah, I got that. But the thing is, Harry, you've got to let this go. You of all people should know that you can't make Draco do anything he doesn't want to do."

"So what are you saying? That I should just stand by and smile as he flirts with all of those girls, like there's nothing wrong with that? That I should do whatever he tells me to do?"

"Come off it, mate. There are very few people who can tell you want to do. You're rather resistant to being ordered around. I heard Draco grumbling about it all night."

"Good for him," Harry spat.

"You two are un_fucking_believable, you know that? Before the hols, I was worried that I'd come in here and find the two of you tangled in the sheets. Now I just worry about you killing each other, and it's only been a week since we got back. What's with you?"

Harry looked away. He didn't understand why they'd been fighting so much, especially when he was the one instigating most of it. It was like everything had been perfect at New Year's and that terrified him, because Harry Potter's life wasn't allowed such brilliance. Sometimes he felt as though he were simply waiting for the axe to fall.

"So what should I do?" Harry asked.

Blaise shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you, other than you're either going to have to deal with the trollops, or be prepared to tell the world that you and Draco are gay, knowing that you'll lose Draco over that."

"He shouldn't be ashamed of me or what we have."

Blaise stood. He fiddled with his belt and smoothed his trousers. "Never said he was, mate, but he's Draco," he said, as if that explained things. Unfortunately, Harry thought, it did.

"And I'm me," Harry said to himself.

&&&&

As far as Harry was concerned, agreeing to go to the Cottage party ranked high on the list of worst possible ideas he'd ever had. He sat in the corner, nursing a beer, wishing he'd never agreed to go. First, there was that McLaggen prat, swaggering about trying to shake everyone's hand and cornering some of the more popular boys, no doubt pressing them on their opinions of the dressage team.

Harry could deal with that, actually. He'd gotten out the worst of his anger the week prior. At least it felt that way at the moment, when he was pleasantly buzzed.

What was much harder was watching girls flutter their sparkly eyelashes at Draco, or shimmy their blobby little breasts at him, or, worse, try and kiss him with their sticky, glossy pink lips. While Draco had done a good job of fending off the little harlots, he'd not looked at Harry at all. Not once. Hadn't even spoken to him. Hadn't spoken to him since their fight the day before, actually.

A girl with impossibly blonde hair laughed at something Draco said, sounding like a feral hyena. Harry growled. He finished his beer and stood to get another.

As he reached across the table, someone called his name.

"Oi, Potter."

Harry tensed and cursed under his breath. "What do you want, McLaggen?"

"Surprised to see you here, is all. How'd you get an invitation to a Cottage party? Is it charity night, or something?"

Familiar anger bubbled up in Harry, the feel of it thick and acidic. He stepped closer, not sure of what he would do, but ready to do _something_. Anything. He opened his mouth, prepared to spew every foul word he could think of, but Blaise interrupted.

"Yeah, McLaggen it is, glad to see you got your invitation," Blaise said, strolling up behind them. "My brother has a soft spot for sods like you, well that and your brother basically _begged_ him for an invitation for you. Something about you not playing well with others and needing all the help you could get."

Harry sniggered as McLaggen went red in the face.

"Now unlike you, Harry here has been to all the Cottage parties—he has a standing invitation," Blaise said.

McLaggen's eyes narrowed and darted between Blaise and Harry. He snorted. "Figures Potter would have an invitation to such a pitiful excuse for a party. Cheap beer and cider? Yeah, great party." McLaggen sniffed. "The only thing missing is the cheap whores and the snakebite."

"You can leave then, if you're having such an awful time of it. I don't think anyone would mind," Blaise said.

McLaggen tossed his head—looking a bit like a horse for a moment—before sneering at Blaise and wandering off.

"What a tosser. Alright there, Harry?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"Good. Got to keep the aggro to a minimum, you know," Blaise said with a wink. "Have a bit more to drink—not too much, though—and at least pretend to have a good time, yeah?"

"Sure."

Blaise ruffled Harry's hair. "Good boy. My work is done here. Now to try and reconcile Ron and Hermione. I think he tried to touch her knickers."

Harry laughed, raising his can in silent salute. For a moment he was having a good time. The good feeling faded, though, when he turned back and saw that horrible little blonde bint affixed to Draco's side. At least Draco seemed to be suffering. Harry smiled a bit grimly.

Suddenly the music seemed too loud, the crowd too stifling. "Right," Harry said to himself, swilling down the rest of his beer, grabbing another, and heading out to the back garden.

He strolled down the path, the noise from the party diminishing with each step. If he remembered right, there was a bench on the other side of the large tree he was rounding, perfect for sitting and figuring things out in the quiet. Only when he got there, the bench was already occupied. Harry sighed.

"'Lo, Pammy."

Pammy Smythwick turned at the sound of Harry's voice. Her hair and make-up were mussed and her blouse looked a bit worse for wear. She had a glass of cider in her hand.

Harry was by her side in an instant. "You okay? You look like . . . I mean . . .well . . . you okay?"

Pammy laughed and took a drink. Harry noticed that her hand shook a bit.

"I didn't realize I looked so bloody awful."

"I . . . that is . . . you look. . . . Bugger."

Pammy laughed again.

"It's alright. I'm fine. Really. My, uh, date just got a little over-enthusiastic, I guess."

Harry had no idea how to respond. "Oh," he said eventually.

"Oh, is right."

"Did he . . . did he hurt you?"

Pammy waved away his concern. "This is nothing, Harry. Really, don't worry. It's not like he didn't have cause to think I might be a bit easy."

Harry thought he might have preferred to watch the giggly blonde flirt shamelessly with Draco than deal with this. He had absolutely no idea what to say, so he said nothing at all. Pammy didn't seem to mind. So they sat there, drinking silently.

"You ever think you're masquerading as someone you're not?" Pammy asked after a long while. "Or, that you've become someone you never set out to be?"

Harry laughed ruefully. "You've no idea."

"Hmm. I rather suspected that you weren't manor born, but I liked that about you. You have a certain amount of scruffiness. I liked that. I liked you."

"I, uh, I'm sorry, Pammy, I just . . . I don't--"

"Don't worry, I'm not making a declaration of love. I just wanted you to know that I really liked you."

Harry had no idea what Pammy was talking about and the expression on his face must have said the same thing.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Sorry, no."

"Probably just as well."

"Is this . . . is this about the, uh, kissing and everything? At the first Cottage party?"

Pammy's smile twisted to one side. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh. I don't. It doesn't matter, anyway. I always meant to thank you for that. The kiss, I mean. The rest is a bit fuzzy and, in some ways, involves things I'd rather not think about."

"Yes, well, water under the bridge and all that, but whatever are you thanking me for?"

Harry looked away. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment. "Just that . . . God, I can't believe I'm admitting this . . . You were my first kiss."

Harry turned back and looked at Pammy. She had an unreadable expression on her face. "You're joking," she said eventually.

"Believe me, I wish I were."

"Well that's just the icing, now isn't it?"

"What?"

Pammy waved him away. "Nothing. Nothing. So I was Harry Potter's first kiss. I know a lot of girls who would be very jealous to learn that."

"Great. Thanks a lot. I'm already having a great time of it and that little bit of gossip would make things loads better, I'm sure." Harry's shoulders slumped. "I told Draco I'd never fit in with—with—well, no offense, Pammy, but with people like you and Draco and everyone else at Wolsford. I don't belong here and sooner or later everyone's going to figure that out."

Pammy set her drink down and turned, clasping Harry's hands in hers. "Sod them, Harry. Sod them all. I wish I could say that it doesn't matter, but to some of these old families it does. But that shouldn't stop you from thumbing your lovely nose at them all and telling them to sod off. You're great just the way you are, Harry."

"Uh, thanks. Erm, what about you, then? Why do you run around, doing, uh, what you do if you don't want to?"

Pammy shrugged. "It's not that easy. No, strike that. Part of me likes it very much, but there's no easy place to draw a line, I suppose." She gave Harry's hands a gentle squeeze. "But enough about that. We should get back."

"Yeah, you should, Pammy."

Harry's head whipped around at the sound of Draco's voice. In the moonlight, he could see Draco glaring at Pammy.

"What are you doing out here?" Harry asked, surprised at how tetchy his voice sounded, even to him.

"I could ask the same of you."

"I'm surprised you even noticed I was missing, what with miss-laughing-hyena all over you."

"Speak for yourself. You're practically in the lap of the mother of all barracudas."

Pammy cleared her voice. "I think this is where I slip into the night and let the two of you finish your spat in private. I don't think I'd care to know where this is headed."

Harry saw a flash of genuine fear in Draco's eyes. "Shut it, you vapid cow," Draco said with a sneer. "Go back and find yourself another little fuck."

Harry stood. "That's enough. You're such an utter arse, Draco. Pammy hasn't done anything to you—leave her the fuck alone. If you're angry with me, take it out on me, not her."

"Defending her honor, are you?"

"Surprised you figured that out, seeing as how it's such a foreign concept to you."

"Okay boys," Pammy interrupted, "I'm leaving now. Give me about five minutes and then you can bash each other's brains in. I have no idea what you're fighting about and, believe me, I have no desire to know. And don't worry, Draco, whatever's going on here stays between us."

"Too right, you are."

"I'm not doing it for your benefit, Draco. It's for Harry. He's got quite enough on his plate, especially if he has to deal with you." With a wink at Harry, Pammy turned her head and flounced off, ignoring Draco's sputtering.

"Well, that went well," Harry said.

Draco rounded on him. "What were you doing out here with her?"

"I wasn't out here with her, Draco. I came out here to get away from you, and McLaggen, and that ridiculous party. She just happened to be out here."

"How convenient." Draco paced back and forth, staring at Harry the whole time. "You looked awfully cozy. Wanted to give her a chance to suck you off, did you?"

"You've lost your mind."

"Right. And she was holding your hands because something scary jumped out of the bushes."

Things fell into place in that moment and Harry realized that he and Draco weren't so different after all. He smiled, his first genuine smile in what felt like a long time. "You're jealous."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I am not. You take that back."

"You are. You're jealous." Harry walked forward, causing Draco to back up into the tree. "You can't stand the thought of Pammy Smythwick touching me, can you?"

Draco swallowed. His breath was ragged.

"Can you?" Harry asked, leaning in and biting the side of Draco's neck. God, it had been ages since he'd touched Draco. Kissed him. He wanted to have sex against the tree—wanted to feel connected to Draco in a way that didn't involve words or subtext.

"She was touching you," Draco said, his voice rough with anger and what sounded like lust to Harry.

Harry nibbled his way up Draco's neck. "And you didn't like it, did you?" When Draco didn't respond, Harry canted his hips forward.

Draco groaned as their erections pressed against each other. "Of course I didn't. I don't want anyone else touching you. Touching what's mine." Draco grabbed Harry's hips and pressed himself forward. He leaned in and sucked hard on the side of Harry's neck.

"Now you know—ah, god—now you know how it fucking feels."

Draco growled and whirled them around so that Harry's back was pressed against the tree. He lunged forward, kissing Harry so hard their teeth clacked together. Harry's tongue thrust into Draco's mouth. All the while they rubbed furiously against each other—pressing, squeezing, taking.

"Want you," Draco moaned before attacking Harry's neck with his teeth and tongue.

Harry growled in the back of his throat. He pivoted his foot and whirled them around, slamming Draco into the tree.

They rubbed against each other hard and fast, the friction on the cusp of painful.

They went faster and faster, their breaths whistling and wheezing as they scrabbled against each other, needing to be closer, needing to find release.

Draco came first, his body arching from the tree, pushing further into Harry, his mouth open in a silent scream. Harry followed soon after, grunting as his orgasm washed over him.

Draco slumped against the tree and both of them slid down until they were sitting on the ground. As the frenzied need they'd both felt dissipated, weariness set in. Harry was so very, very tired. He closed his eyes.

&&&&

He felt fingers carding through his hair. Harry smiled. He shifted a bit. The fingers stopped. Lips pressed lightly against the top of his head.

"We should get back. We can sneak in the side door and clean up. Hopefully everyone will be too drunk to notice that anything's off."

Harry nodded.

"Look, I'm sorry about tonight. And last week. I should have. . . . God, Harry, I don't know what to do. I don't know how to do this. It's nothing to do with you, you know that, yeah?"

Harry swallowed. He was too tired and too content at the moment to get into things with Draco. "Yeah, sure," he said, disentangling himself and getting to his feet.

Draco stopped him before he could start walking back. Harry turned, his expression questioning.

Draco stared at him a long while, looking as though he wanted to say something but couldn't find the right words. In the end he leaned forward, giving Harry one of his long, slow kisses—the kind that made Harry forget things for a little while. Harry fell into the kiss.


	25. Naked and Exposed

**Author's Note:**Thank you, thank you to Sansa and Scordh for the fabulous beta work. Also, a deeply felt thank you to all of you who read my little story and leave such wonderful reviews. I do wish I were able to keep up with them a bit better. Please know, though, that I appreciate them all.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Warning:**UNDER 18. There's serious slash in this chapter, folks, which has been cut in order to comply with policies on content.

Harry's hair fluttered in the breeze, imaginary fingers tugging at the wayward tufts. His teeth worried his bottom lip, his tongue darting out occasionally. He sat hunched over his book, his warm coat pulled around him. Draco knew by the way his brows furrowed or rose whether Harry had read something intriguing or trite. There was a softness about him when the masks fell away.

Draco thought him beautiful.

Sometimes—on days like this, when the sun was just right, framing life with bucolic haze—he wanted to tell the world that he thought so. And then declare that Harry was his, and his alone.

Harry looked up from his book and stared across the expanse of the grounds and the lake. "You're staring again," he said, his expression bemused.

Draco dropped his gaze. "I am not. I've just noticed that it's rather cold and was checking to see if you had early signs of hypothermia. Your cheeks look awfully flushed."

"Liar. You wanted to come out here because you said it was unseasonably warm for a February."

"Yes, well, it's still cold."

"It's February. It's not supposed to be balmy."

"About that, it's my birthday this week, you know."

"Yeah, Draco. I know."

"I'm going to be sixteen."

"Yes, I know."

"That means I can have sex."

Harry laughed, the sound rich and golden like the sun. "You've already had sex. Loads of it."

"Yes, well now I can have it _legally_."

"Planning on a romantic tryst with anyone I know?"

Draco leaned in and nibbled Harry's ear, smiling when Harry shuddered. His book fell to the ground. "Someone you know quite well," Draco whispered before giving a final nip.

Harry pulled away. "Careful, someone might have seen."

"What if they did?" Draco asked. The moment was caught in perfection, making it easy to be brave.

Harry ducked his head, the shy turn of it just as alluring as his laugh. "You don't really mean that."

Draco shrugged. "I do right now." _'I wish I did all of the time.'_

Harry drew his knees to him. "You don't—look, what you did, what you've done about McLaggen is enough. You don't have to be all girly or anything."

"I'm not being girly and I'll thump you if you say that again."

"You could try it," Harry said, his appraising gaze saying all too clearly that Draco didn't stand a chance against him.

"Shut it, you. But seriously, I should have done something earlier, said something earlier. I . . . I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that." Harry pursed his lips and looked out across the lake.

Draco had seen the same pensive expression on Harry's face often enough in the last few weeks, but hadn't called attention to it. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what words lay behind Harry's pursed lips.

"I forgot to tell you, but Mum's planned some trip to France and I want you to come, too. We can French kiss in France," Draco said with an exaggerated waggle of his brows, hoping to pull Harry from his thoughts.

"This summer? You want to talk about this summer?"

"Er, yeah. Why?"

Harry bit his lip and looked away again.

A familiar sense of dread curled in Draco's stomach. "We don't have to go to France. I mean, I'm sure I can convince her to go somewhere else."

"I'm going to Chile," Harry blurted.

"Oh. I hadn't thought about South America, but I suppose it would be fun to visit Belize and such."

"No. I mean . . . I'm going as one of Professor Snape's research assistants. He's got a grant and he's allowed two assistants."

Draco swallowed, feeling betrayed that Harry had kept this from him. "When did you find out?"

"I haven't yet. He's . . . he's not making a choice until the end of term, but, well he told me I didn't have to worry about where I'd be going this summer. So, I'm sure he'll pick me."

"He'd be a fool not to."

Harry's gaze darted to Draco before looking away again. He was gnawing the middle of his lip, not biting the side like he did when he was reading.

"Sounds like a great opportunity. You might even get a tan." It was so hard to say those words. Draco wanted to tackle Harry to the ground and demand that he go to France with him, but Harry's answering smile made him forget all of that.

"You think so? Really?"

"Course. And it's not, ah, a big deal if we spend the summer apart. We've been . . . we're a part of each other's lives. Always have been. That doesn't stop because you go away for the summer."

Harry lurched forward and kissed Draco hard. "Thank you."

"Were you worried about the summer? Was that why you've been all moody?"

"Partly, yeah. I'm worr—I was worried about this summer. I can't go back there. I'd run away first."

Before Harry could say anything else, Draco cupped the back of his head and pulled him into another kiss, desperate to take away words about running away or going back to the Dursleys. Draco knew they couldn't solve everything with kisses, but any concern he had flew out of his head when Harry nibbled his bottom lip before sucking it hard. Draco could kiss Harry forever and he doubted that even that would be enough.

Harry drew back after a few minutes. "Thanks for that."

Draco grinned.

"Prat. Well what should we talk about now?"

"My birthday."

Harry rolled his eyes. "For the last time, I'm not telling you about your present."

"Not that. The other thing we were talking about."

A soft grin spread across Harry's face. "You'll have to remind me again. I've forgotten."

Draco licked his lips. "Happy to," he said as he leaned in to show Harry exactly what he was talking about.

"So what are you getting Draco for his birthday?" Blaise asked as he and Harry wandered through the small village near Wolsford.

"A few things. Nothing in particular."

"What are they?"

"None of your business, that's what."

"Must be something kinky if you won't share."

Harry reddened. "It's nothing like that. It's just personal."

"Ooh. Personal."

"God, Blaise. Can you not turn everything into a sexual innuendo? Just once?"

"Oh, all right. What are you going to get Ron, then?"

"Dunno. Thought about a jersey for that football team he likes so much. Kind of boring, though. What about you?"

"He gets the cottage weekend after next."

"What for?"

Blaise stopped. "You didn't seriously ask that question."

"I'm not an idiot, Blaise. But everyone's said all along that Hermione won't let him get near her until they're married."

"Maybe the fair lass has changed her mind. I heard she wasn't quite as upset about the knicker touching incident as we'd been led to believe."

Harry laughed. "Ron'll be pleased. But why not give him the cottage after the party? They'll both already be there."

Blaise shot a curious look at Harry, as if he wasn't sure whether—or what—to say. "That's because Draco gets the cottage for the rest of the weekend."

"Oh." Harry had no idea what else to say.

"Figured the two of you might appreciate, uh, personal things in a real room instead of a storage cupboard or the stables. Don't look so scandalized, Potter. I'm not stupid—there's only so many places the two of you could, you know, be together at school. Consider it my bit to help Cupid."

Harry shook his head. "Erm, thanks, I guess."

"Worried? Afraid Draco will have his way with you?"

"Bloody wanker. No, nothing like that. Just . . . it'll be weird, I guess."

What? Doing it on a real bed instead of a floor, or something?"

"No. Just the two of us for the weekend. Just being together. Doing normal stuff."

"I doubt you're going to be playing Snap or Charades while you're there. Though, come to think of it, Charades could get rather interesting."

Harry cuffed Blaise's shoulder. "You're a bloody menace. It'll just be weird, that's all."

"Well if you don't want it, I can always tell Draco that my brother needs it."

Harry blushed. "That's not necessary," he stammered, ignoring Blaise's laugh.

The party drew to a close as a very tipsy Ron carried an equally tipsy Hermione out of the cottage, the last stragglers following them out, egging them on to the heights of knicker touching.

Draco heard them leave, but he wasn't watching. His eyes were on Harry—had been all night. It had been so difficult not to go over, push him against the wall and whisper very naughty things in his ear.

Harry laughed and waved goodbye to Ron. Draco loved hearing Harry laugh. It made him shine as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"I think he's going to get to touch her knickers for real tonight," Draco said.

Harry snorted. "I think he already has."

"You're probably right. They did keep disappearing a lot."

"Have a good birthday party? Sad you had to share it?"

"Ron's a good mate. I don't mind sharing in that respect. And so far it's been an okay party."

"Just okay?"

"Yeah." Draco licked his lips, suddenly feeling nervous. "I think the private one's going to be far more stimulating." At least he hoped so.

Harry laughed. "Do you think of these things before you say them, or do they just tumble out of your mouth? On second thought, don't answer. I don't know which proposition frightens me more."

Draco's hand slipped behind Harry and rested in the small of his back, his fingers rubbing back and forth. "You're going to regret that."

"I am?"

Draco's fingers ventured lower, massaging the top of Harry's bum. "Oh, yes."

"How—how's that, exactly?"

"I think I'll let you figure it out," Draco said with a pat before removing his hand as Blaise wandered over.

"Now remember, we can cover for you until dinner tomorrow night, but you have to be back by then. You have a way back?"

Draco nodded.

"Alright, then. Happy Birthday, Draco and . . . have fun." With that, Blaise sauntered off, shutting the door behind him as he left the cottage.

Draco and Harry stared all around the room for a few moments. For the first time in memory, Draco was unsure of how to proceed. There was something he wanted to try with Harry but . . . he wasn't sure how to go about initiating it or whether Harry would be receptive. He felt a bit raw, a bit exposed, and it scared him.

Harry cleared his throat. "I suppose we should start cleaning up," he said as he ran his hands through his hair.

"Leave it. The cleaners will take care of it on Monday."

Harry nodded. He bit his lip and looked away.

"Want a drink?" Draco asked, wanting one for himself. He hoped it would calm his nerves.

"Um, no. I'm fine, thanks."

Draco shrugged. "Suit yourself. Though I think it'd loosen you up a bit."

"I'm—I'm . . . loose. I mean, I'm not tight—er, tense. I just—for fuck's sake, Draco, stop grinning like that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Draco said, grinning even more, relieved that Harry was nervous, too.

"Yes you do. You've been doing it all night. Stop it."

Feeling more confident, Draco sauntered forward, a different sort of smile on his face. "But you like it when I smile."

Harry's eyes went wide. He stumbled backward, backing into the wall.

Draco didn't stop moving forward. "Do you know how hard it was to keep my hands off of you tonight?"

Harry swallowed. "Yeah. I do."

"Thought you might." Draco covered Harry's body with his own, his hands poised on either side of Harry's head.

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry asked, though the way he slouched against the wall with his head cocked to the side said he knew exactly what Draco was doing. And that he wanted it.

"Having some fun."

"What makes you think I want to have that kind of fu—omphf!" Draco let his kiss steal the words from his tongue.

"Knew there was a way to shut you up," Draco said before kissing Harry again.

Draco groaned as Harry's hand cupped his erection and squeezed.

"Knew there was a way to make you groan," Harry said, continuing to squeeze and rub Draco's erection in between kisses.

"Terrible come-back, Potter. Not worthy of that sarcastic tongue of yours—ah, God you're wicked." Draco moaned as Harry rubbed the side of his erection and squeezed the top.

"Can't let you have all the fun. Perhaps we should move this elsewhere. Like the perfectly nice bed in the other room."

"You want to?" Draco squeezed Harry's erection, excitement rushing through him as Harry's eyes glazed.

"Yeah, yeah I want to."

And suddenly Draco was nervous again. "Um, how about my present first, yeah?"

Harry whimpered. "Bed now. Present later."

Draco laughed, hoping it hid his nervousness. "Present now. I told you you'd regret your earlier sarcasm."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're a bastard, you know that?"

"Part of my charm."

"Alright, alright. Just . . . go on, I'll be right there."

Harry stared at the wrapped gift, hoping he hadn't made a foolish mistake. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now . . . he hoped Draco liked it. There was something about giving this gift that made Harry feel more exposed than he'd ever been. There were times he felt naked when Draco stared at him. It was like Draco could see everything about him and know what all of it meant.

"Harry, you coming?"

"Yeah. I'll be right there."

Harry sighed. "Please don't think it's rubbish," he said under his breath. "Or total sap."

"That my present?" Draco asked, his eyes roving over the wrapped box in Harry's hands as Harry entered the bedroom.

"No. It's for someone else whose birthday's today."

"Git."

"Arsehole."

"Enough with the verbal foreplay—hand over the present."

Harry shook his head, but handed over the present nonetheless. "You really are awful, you know that, don't you?"

Draco didn't answer, his focus entirely on the present.

Harry gnawed on his bottom lip as Draco unwrapped the box, opened it, and pulled out the books inside. He examined them, his head tilted in curiosity.

"You got me journals for Physics, Latin, and Literature. Uh, thanks."

"Open them," Harry said, cursing that his voice was far more timid than he would have liked.

Draco looked at him oddly, but did as he was told. He opened the Latin journal and gasped.

"The Adventures of Bernard and Ollie," Draco murmured. He looked up sharply at Harry. "You . . . how did you . . . . You remembered."

"Yeah. I did." Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Erm, I saw them, you know, and remembered that you loved them when . . . well, you know. When we were younger. And I thought you might like them. I couldn't find the others. Just these three. I had the bookbinder make a cover of sorts so that, uh, people wouldn't notice. Not that it matters if they did. I just didn't think you wanted people to see books about two little boys going on grand adventures together."

Draco traced the title with his index finger without a word. Harry began to panic. "If you don't like them, I can take them back and get you something else. It . . . I just thought . . . they're stupid, yeah?"

"No," Draco whispered, pulling the book closer before closing it and setting it aside. "You can't take them back." His fingers trailed over the other two, his expression contemplative.

"I just . . . look, if you don't like them. If--"

"Don't you know anything, Potter? You can't take back presents. That's horribly rude. I suppose I'll have to save you from yourself once again and keep these books. Forever, of course. It would be bad form not to."

And Harry understood, then. His mouth quirked at the sides. "Yes. Of course. How would I survive the gift giving mine field were it not for your guidance?"

Draco sniffed. "You wouldn't." His fingers traced the lines of the Latin cover. "Did you ever wonder what happened to Bernard and Ollie?"

Harry sat on the bed. "Dunno. Grew up, I guess."

"Think they stayed friends?"

"Course. Still had grand adventures."

"Think of one."

"What? An adventure?"

"Yeah. What? Don't look at me like that. It's my birthday. I get what I want."

Harry laughed, assaulted with memories of an eight-year-old Draco making little demands while stamping his small feet.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Er, nothing. Just . . . remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"Adventures. So what do you want, Draco?"

Draco was doing that weird staring thing again. The one that made Harry's insides squirm in a way that was both exciting and scary. The one that made him feel naked while fully clothed. "Um . . ."

"I want an adventure."

"Er . . . okay. Wait—you don't want to dig anything up in the garden, do you?"

Draco shook his head slowly, still staring at Harry. He stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Oh. That kind of . . . . Should I . . .?"

"Yeah, Harry. You should." Draco licked his lips and looked Harry up and down. "Right now, in fact."

Harry's insides squirmed again, followed by a zoom of tingling heat. His hands flew to his shirt buttons, undoing them as fast as he could.

Very large scene cut due to mature content.

"God, that was amazing," Draco said in between deep breaths.

"Yeah, it was. What was that, um, thing I touched?"

Draco opened one eye and stared at Harry. "I think it was my prostate." He waved towards the book. "It talks about it in there."

"Oh."

"Did I touch yours?"

"I . . . I don't think so."

Draco opened both eyes. "We'll have to rectify that. How about after a quick shower? We can take care of that, as well," Draco said, pointing to Harry's erection.

Harry licked his lips and nodded.

"Brilliant. Just brilliant."

Harry couldn't agree more.


	26. Shadows in the Corners

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. Slowly, but surely, I am answering them . . . please forgive my tardiness.

I have finished Draco's Boy and will be posting one chapter a week until all have been posted. Thank you to all who have stuck with me through this epic journey.

**CHAPTER 26: Shadows in the Corners**

Harry stared at the small slip of creamy paper as he walked along Wolsford's stone corridors.

A summons to the headmaster's office was never good. Ever. His mind raced, picking apart of all his recent transgressions, wondering if any of them could be why he'd been summoned. Not surprisingly, nearly all of them involved Draco—sneaking out at night, ducking into broom cupboards, using the stable for illicit purposes and without Mr. Hagrid's knowledge. Had someone seen? Would Draco refuse to see him if someone found out? Would he be dismissed? Sent back to the Dursleys?

"Yes, can I help you?"

Harry started. He looked around and blinked, surprised to find himself in the administration office, staring into the eyes of a humped over old woman whose face was as gray and lined as a statue.

"Er, yes. I received this," he said, pushing the slip of paper at her.

She took it and read it over carefully before nodding. "The headmaster will be with you shortly." She turned away without another word, disappearing into the vast ante-chamber.

A door clicked open to his right. Harry looked around wildly, wondering what he was supposed to do. He bit his bottom lip.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the old woman asked, returning with a narrowed gaze and pursed lips. "It's bad form to keep the headmaster waiting."

Harry stood motionless for a moment, his eyes wide.

The old woman huffed. "Honestly, adolescent boys these days. What are you waiting for? It's not as if there's a secret password." When Harry still hadn't moved, she strode forward closer, making shooing motions with her wrinkled gray hands. "In, in, you silly boy."

Harry shook himself from his daze and walked into the office. The door closed behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Please join me if you would," called the headmaster from around the corner of a large pillar.

"Yes, sir," Harry stammered as he made his way to the headmaster's desk. He tried very hard not to stare at the gleaming paneled walls, the thick, antique carpets on the floor, and the vast array of expensive and useless artifacts and trinkets.

"Have a seat," the headmaster said. He was a wizened old man with thick white hair, half-moon spectacles, and the strangest tie Harry had ever seen. "You are no doubt wondering why I called you here."

Harry nodded, smoothing out the wrinkles in his trousers, as if that would somehow stave off his trepidation.

"We are coming up on the middle of the term. As you know there is a short holiday for the students and I noticed that you'd not made any travel arrangements."

Harry blinked. This was why he'd been summoned?

"I . . . I'm not to stay here, sir?"

"You certainly may, of course, but we'd need something from your guardians—" the headmaster picked up a file and leafed through it, "the Dursleys, I believe—permitting you to stay and assigning temporary guardianship over you to the school. We have not been able to contact them. Is there an alternative address or telephone number that you are aware of? Are they on holiday?"

Harry's mind reeled. He had no idea where the Dursleys might be, but more importantly, he couldn't imagine the headmaster taking the trouble to see him for something so trivial.

"I . . . no, sir. It's a busy time of year for them, I think. Perhaps they haven't had a chance to respond?"

The headmaster stroked his short beard. "Yes, I'd thought of that."

An ancient brass clock tick-tocked in the background while a small, vermilion colored songbird to the left of the headmaster warbled a soft melody. The headmaster continued to stroke his beard, apparently lost in contemplation.

"Erm, excuse me, sir, but . . . this seems like a rather small thing for you to bother with."

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Quite right, Harry. Quite right." He picked up a small bowl full of yellow sweets. "Sherbet lemon?"

"Uh, no thank you," Harry said, wondering what was going on.

"What of your summer plans, Harry?"

"Erm, I've applied for an assistanceship with Professor Snape. He's got a grant to study a new plant in Chile."

"Yes, I've heard that. I wasn't aware that he'd chosen his assistants yet."

"He hasn't as such, no. But—"

"What are your plans in the alternative, then?"

"I . . . Sorry?"

"Your summer plans. Where shall you be spending your summer in the alternative?"

"Draco Malfoy's invited me to spend the summer with him."

The headmaster leaned forward. "Will the Dursleys agree to this?"

"I . . . I don't know. Yes, I imagine."

"We'll need something in writing from them to that effect, of course."

"Yes, sir. I think . . . I believe Professor Snape's been in contact with them about these things."

The headmaster fished through the dish of sherbet lemons and popped one into his mouth. He leaned back in his padded leather chair, the creak of the springs reverberating.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck and looked away from the headmaster's gaze.

"Harry, I am most concerned that you haven't spent any holidays with your family this year. I understand that you've had a difficult time with them, but what teenage boy hasn't?"

Harry's face felt hot. "I'd call it more than just a difficult time."

"Perhaps the time apart has healed past hurts?"

"No. It hasn't."

"Are you certain that there can be no resolu—"

"No," Harry shouted before remembering himself. He sat back in his chair. "No, sir. No chance for resolution."

The headmaster sighed and turned towards his bird, watching him sing and flit about his gilded cage. "If summer arrangements have not been secured by the end of term, you'll have to go back to them for the summer. Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Potter?"

Panic gripped Harry, stealing his breath and making his heart feel as though it would tumble from his chest. "You can't make me go back there."

"I'm afraid we would not have a choice."

"It doesn't matter. I'm going to Chile," he declared with all of the bravado he could muster.

"You haven't been selected as of yet. Perhaps you should look at other opportunities?"

"Just what are you saying? Are you saying Professor Snape's already selected his assistants?"

"Calm yourself, dear boy. I am not privy to Professor Snape's selection process, but I rather think it important you be prepared for the possibility that you will not be chosen. You have several years ahead of you at Wolsford. Many of the lads in your class do not. It would only be natural that Professor Snape would choose some of the older, more experienced students."

Harry didn't know what to say. He felt as if he'd been struck dumb. He watched as the headmaster shuffled papers and mumbled to himself. Finally, he pulled out a sheave of papers and colored brochures and held them out for Harry to take.

"Nevertheless, I understand that Professor Snape has asked all the students who wish to be considered to have their parents or guardians provide permission for their sons to go, with the understanding that the students will not be picked until very close to the end of term. Were you aware of this condition?"

Harry nodded and looked down at his feet. He knew it. The Dursleys were going to wreck everything for him. Every time he thought he might have a chance, that he might actually be something, they came around and squashed it.

"Am I out of the running, then? Is that what this is all about?" Harry asked, his mind racing with plans for what he'd do if the answer was yes.

"No, dear boy, of course not." The headmaster hesitated. He dug around in the dish of sherbet lemons before finding another one that met his approval. Harry rather felt like the remaining sweets in the dish, the ones that had not quite measured up. Not yet, anyway.

"There are a wealth of study opportunities for a young man like you," the headmaster continued. "I am merely counseling you on your options. There is far more in the world than Chile."

But Harry didn't want anything else. He wanted Chile. He didn't know why, exactly, he just knew he did. He wanted to spend the summer with Professor Snape, wanted to prove that he was just as good as the poncy Gilderoys prancing about Wolsford as if the world moved at their pleasure.

" . . . many are close to home, others far away. Applications need to be made this week or next."

Harry's head snapped up. He realized that he'd not being paying attention. "What?" he blurted, cringing at how harsh the word sounded.

"Applications, Mr. Potter. You must make your applications. I realize Professor Snape's not mentioned this, so I'm meeting with each of the lads who've expressed interest in going with him. A research opportunity like this is a great boon to the school and it needs to be handled carefully."

"But I—"

"And no don't worry about the cost."

"The cost of Chile?"

The headmaster chuckled. "You're quite the determined fellow, aren't you?" Harry supposed it was meant to be grandfatherly, but to him it sounded condescending. "I was discussing all of the programs. No need to worry about cost, I was saying. Generally speaking they have scholarship funds available."

Harry's face colored with embarrassment. "I don't need those brochures."

"I'm sure you don't. Yes, of course." The headmaster stared at him, a curious twinkle in his eyes. "Your year mates might be interested in them? Mr. Longbottom, perhaps? There's quite a good horticulture and botany study program at Oxford. Would you mind passing these along to him?"

Harry took the brochures with great reluctance, shoving them into his school bag. "Is that all, sir?" he snapped.

"Severus said you had spirit," the headmaster mumbled to himself. "Yes, Mr. Potter, that is all. Please keep my office appraised of your holiday plans."

Harry gave him a short nod before turning on his heel and leaving.

As soon as he was through the door, he ran as fast as he could, desperate to be outside. Once he crossed the threshold, he slumped against the wall and slid down, gasping for breath. What the hell was happening? Everything had been going just fine. But, of course, he was Harry Potter. He wasn't allowed an easy time of it.

Harry thought about what to do. Should he confront Professor Snape and ask him about Chile? Should he apply to those other programs just in case? He snorted as he dug his fingers into grass. No. He wasn't going to do any of that. And he wouldn't tell anyone about his visit with the headmaster, though Snape would certainly know of it. And he wouldn't go back to the Dursleys.

DDDDDDDDDD

Harry stared at his bryophyte project with growing horror. The lichen on the left looked nothing like the lichen on the right, even though they were supposed to be the same. The goal had been to reproduce the lichen, not kill it.

It was the damn headmaster's fault. If he hadn't summoned Harry to his office for some stupid, cryptic meeting the week prior, Harry wouldn't have gone looking for distraction. Draco provided wonderful distraction, but Harry's project had suffered. Professor Snape would never accept it.

He was frantically reviewing his lab notes, praying that he'd find the reason for the disaster as well as a way to correct it in four hours time. He was exhausted—he'd been holed up in the lab all night trying to finish his final report.

"Harry?"

Startled, Harry turned, knocking over several large beakers, wincing as they clattered and broke against the stone floor.

"What are you doing here, Neville?" Harry asked, scrambling to pick up the broken beakers.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. Just came to check on my project. Here, let me help," Neville said, getting down on all fours and picking up the shards of glass.

"Thought these things weren't supposed to break," Neville murmured, sucking in a deep breath as a shard tip pricked his finger.

Harry snorted in response, immediately feeling awful as Neville continued to help while holding up his injured finger to staunch the blood.

"Sorry about that, Neville. Thanks, um, for helping me clean this up."

Neville shrugged. "Of course I'd help."

The boys cleaned in silence for a few minutes longer before Neville eyed Harry and asked, "You okay? You've been, um, a bit testy lately."

Harry sighed, dusting off his hands. "Yeah. Just worried about this project. I've—well, truth is, I've completely ruined it and I don't . . . I can't . . . it's due in four hours, Neville! I can't . . . what am I going to do?"

Neville stood, throwing away the broken glass. "Well, let's take a look. It can't be as bad as all that."

Neville gasped as he looked over the project. "What did you do?"

Harry groaned. Maybe he could escape before anyone noticed he'd left. He had all the money he'd saved from Mrs. Malfoy's allowance she insisted on sending him every month. He might be able to get to the train by the time classes started.

"Harry?"

"Um, sorry. I—I don't know what I did. That's the problem. It looked fine last week."

"Was that the last time you checked it? Last week?"

Harry flushed with embarrassment. "I've been busy."

Neville sighed. "Where are your notes?"

Harry handed over his lab journal without a word.

Neville started reading them, mumbling to himself as he did. He seemed to be close to the end when he stopped and looked up. "And you're sure you recreated the moisture, light, and heat patterns exactly?"

"I—I thought I did. Isn't that in there?"

"Well yeah, it is—very nicely detailed, by the way—but if you'd done what's written in here, that bit of lichen on the left wouldn't look like it'd been roasted in the Sahara. Did you, um, did you do anything with it this last week? The notes, er, trail off after last Saturday."

"I've been busy," Harry repeated, his face flushing at the thought of what he'd been busy with.

Neville sighed. "Well to fix it, you've got to remember what you did."

Harry thought back. He'd been monitoring the moisture content, light, and heat meticulously for weeks. He gasped. The heat light—he'd left it on for an extra hour the previous Tuesday because Draco was in the mood for kissing and he'd been in the mood for forgetting.

"Neville, would an extra hour under the lamp make a difference? That kind of difference?"

Neville bit his lip and closed his eyes. "Yeah. I think it might, especially if you kept up the heat thereafter and, erm, maybe forgot to water one day. Remember Professor Snape saying that the ecosystem was really, really delicate? I bet a change like that would make a huge difference. It'd . . . it'd—"

"Fry it beyond recognition?"

Neville's shoulders slumped. "Yeah. I think it would."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. "Fucking hell," he swore. "What am I going to do now? I can't turn this in. He'll humiliate me in front of the class, he'll fail me." _'He won't pick me to go to Chile. He'll regret bringing me here. He won't like me anymore.'_

"Well, there's one thing you could do. You know he goes on and on about the delicate balance in the ecosystem and all that. In fact, that's why he's off to Chile over the summer holiday, isn't it? Why not say you changed around the project to show how just a minor environmental change can wreak havoc?"

"He's going to go mental."

"Yeah. Probably. But at least it won't be because you, erm, got distracted. With, um, Draco."

Harry's head whipped around. "What did you say?"

Neville looked away. "I saw the two of you, last week, on the third floor. Don't worry, no one else saw."

"Saw what?" Harry asked, his heart hammering in his chest, knowing exactly what Neville had seen.

Neville shrugged and bit his lip. "Forget I said anything."

"What did you see? Tell me."

Neville shook his head. "Nothing. I—I must have b-been . . . . I didn't see . . . . N-nothing.

Harry took a deep breath. "Sorry, I—come on, Nev, I'm not going to get angry. Promise."

Neville looked up at Harry. "Promise?"

"Yeah, course. It's important—I really need to know what you saw, erm, what you think you saw."

"I saw . . . . He was . . . he was kissing you."

Harry swallowed. He didn't say a word.

Neville took Harry's silence as acceptance and rushed to finish. "He looked like he'd done it before. Loads of times before."

Harry looked away.

"I wasn't spying! Honest! I needed a book from the library and somehow took a wrong turn. Wound up on the third floor. I'm sorry, Harry, I—"

"It's okay. I know you weren't spying. It's just a shock, I guess. Listen, you cannot say a word about this to anyone. He'll—Not a word, Neville."

"So it's true. What I saw."

Harry bit his lip and nodded. "You can't—"

"I wouldn't dare say a word, Harry. Believe me, I, erm, I know what it's like to be different in a place where different isn't allowed."

"Are you—?"

"No. Not that there's a problem with you . . . you being like that. It's not . . . I mean, there's no problem. I'm just not. Like that, I mean.

"Not gay, you mean?" Harry said.

Neville laughed. "No. I'm just stupid, clumsy Neville."

"Not to me, you're not. Don't let people say that to you. Don't believe them, Neville. Don't."

"You're—you don't even get it do you?"

"What?"

"You understand things, Harry. And that's what separates you from the rest of the people here. You know what it's like to be on the outside, even though—here—you're on the inside, it seems."

"I don't care about that shite."

"I know, but Draco does. I think he cares about it quite a lot. I have to say, I'm surprised that the two of you . . . well, that . . . that you're friends, I guess."

"Why? Why wouldn't we be?"

Neville shrugged and looked away. "He's never been kind to me, or many people, really. He was quite a little bully at eleven. Got a nasty streak, that one. And you've never been anything but kind. Draco's got a reputation—or had." Neville gave Harry an appraising look. "But, he's certainly shown better judgment lately."

Harry looked away, blushing. "Draco's alright. He's just . . . fussy about things."

Neville laughed. "That's one way of putting it. Seriously though, the other day on the third floor, the way he looked at you . . ."

"Yeah?"

Neville blushed. "You'll laugh."

"No, I won't."

"He—he was looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered . . . it was nice to see that side of him, I guess. To know that something important mattered to Draco Malfoy."

Harry fiddled with this lab report, smiling to himself. "Never figured you for such a romantic."

Neville shrugged. "It's not like I'd want that to get around. I've got enough trouble as it is."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"And so is yours. All of them are."

Perhaps it was Neville's knowing gaze, or the solemnity in his voice, or the fact that it was four o'clock in the morning, but Harry had a sudden urge to tell Neville all about the Dursleys, and his fears about the summer, and about Draco. About himself. He opened his mouth, not even sure what would come out, but Neville interrupted.

"Right. So we just need to adjust a few entries here—thank God you use pencil—and then we need to restructure your final paper. Have you got it written in longhand?"

Harry nodded, the words he'd meant to say slipping away as he and Neville worked together to save his project.

DDDDDDDDDD

Professor Snape swept around the room, examining everyone's projects, making his usual cutting remarks. Harry had never felt more nervous in his life. When Professor Snape finally made it to his and Neville's lab table, Harry looked away. The audible inhale from Professor Snape was the only indication Harry got that he'd seen his project.

Harry shot a glance to the side, cringing at the murderous expression on Professor Snape's face. He moved over to Harry's project and stood there, saying nothing. Harry watched as long fingers darted towards his report and journal before pulling back, hesitating.

Professor Snape drew in a deep breath.

Harry braced himself. Just when he thought he couldn't stand it a moment longer, he saw the long fingers retreat, heard Professor Snape turn to Neville.

Harry felt like he'd been thrown from a tall building only to unexpectedly land a short distance later on a great big rubber cushion. In some sort of masochistic way, it was a let-down.

"Passable, Mr. Longbottom," Professor Snape said after he'd spent long minutes examining his project and journal.

Harry's heart pounded as Professor Snape came to stand in front of his project again. Harry looked up for a fleeting moment, having to duck his head and shuffle away from the weight of Professor Snape's stare.

"Do not disrespect me further by avoiding me," Professor Snape hissed.

Neville gasped. Harry heard furious whispering behind him.

Harry looked up and stared directly into Professor Snape's eyes, daring him to try to embarrass him, daring him to call him names and tell him he was worthless. If Professor Snape wanted a fight, Harry would give it to him.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Potter?"

"Which part, sir?"

Professor Snape bent forward so fast, it was like a venomous snake attacking. Harry didn't move.

"I will not tolerate insolence. Explain to me the utter failure of your project."

Harry swallowed and launched into his prepared explanation. "It occurred to me that lichen—like most bryophytes—has an incredibly sensitive ecosystem."

"Impressive, Mr. Potter. I believe I said the same thing only two weeks ago."

There was a titter of laughter from behind Harry. He ignored it and pressed on.

"Yes sir, I know, and that's—that's what got me thinking. Well that, and your Chile project. It seemed to me that heat—what with greenhouse emissions and global warming and all—might be the obvious reason for that spontaneous change in the specimen you're going to study. And I wondered how excessive heat might affect the lichen and whether there would be a viable specimen remaining. Perhaps something new."

Furious whispering broke out. Harry thought he heard someone ask, "Why didn't I think of that?"

Quiet," Professor Snape said to the class, never taking his eyes away from Harry's. "You have failed on all accounts then, Mr. Potter. This is nothing but a shriveled mass that speaks more to inattention than creativity."

"I was trying to go beyond the simplicity of the project, _sir_," Harry spat, adrenaline coursing through him.

"And yet you failed to achieve even the simplicity of the assigned project. How disappointing. And, with regard to your decision to take creative license, that was not the project, simplistic or not, Mr. Potter. Your assignment was to recreate the conditions of your lichen sample and create a compatible specimen. You have failed to achieve that."

Professor Snape swept away. "And let this be a lesson to all of you, do not think you will get into my good graces by going outside the bounds of your assignments, lest you wish to receive a failing grade like Mr. Potter."

A sharp, unbearable pain pierced Harry's chest. He thought he might pass out. He'd failed. He'd failed in the one class that meant a damn to him.

"Class is dismissed. Mr. Potter, stay behind."

Harry nodded, slumping onto his lab chair as the rest of the class gathered their books and projects and left.

When the room was once again quiet and still, Professor Snape made his way back to Harry's lab table.

"You will repeat this assignment over the spring holiday. For half credit only."

Harry nodded.

"And for lying—"

"I didn't lie!"

Professor Snape slapped his hands against the table, startling Harry and causing him to scramble off of his stool and away from Professor Snape. He thought he saw a brief expression of regret in Professor Snape's eyes, but it left as quickly as it came.

"Do not interrupt me again."

"Yes sir," Harry mumbled, his arms wrapping around himself.

"And for lying, you will serve detention every night for the next two weeks with Mr. Filch. I imagine he has some particularly onerous tasks he's been saving."

"Fine," Harry snapped, still refusing to look at Professor Snape.

"If you ever do that again, if you ever manipulate your work to cover up whatever monumental mistake you've made, I'll see you dismissed from this school. Is that clear?"

Harry felt like he couldn't breathe. Everything hurt. "Yes," he bit out.

"Do not take that tone with me."

"Yes, _sir_."

Harry heard Professor Snape sigh. "Sit down, Harry."

"I'm fine."

"That was not a request. Sit down. Now."

Harry shuffled forward and perched on his lab stool, staring warily at Professor Snape.

"What's got into you? Why would you do this? Why would you lie?"

Hot tears prickled at the corners of Harry's eyes, followed quickly by the blush of mortification. He swiped at his face. "I just wanted to do well on the project."

"Do you think you're the first student who has overexposed his project to something, be it light, heat, or moisture? Do you think yourself so perfect that you must lie to cover up a mistake? Or is there something else at work here? Is this about Draco? Is he pulling you away from your studies?"

"You leave Draco out of this!"

Professor Snape looked as though he wanted to slap more than the lab table. Harry cringed involuntarily.

"Unless you tell me what is going on, what happened, I'm going to have to consider removing you from this class."

Harry gasped. "You can't . . . you wouldn't—that's not fair!"

Professor Snape leaned across the lab table, his hands splayed against its surface. "You're right. This isn't fair. If you were any other student, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. If you were any other student, you'd be on your way to your room to pack your things. I don't think you really want me to be fair, now do you?"

Harry shook his head. He looked down at his lap.

"I'm waiting."

"It's like I said, I—"

"Stop. Don't compound the problem. Don't lie to me, Harry. I'm giving you one more chance. Tell me the truth. What's going on with you? You've been distracted in class, moody, irritable."

Harry looked away and swallowed. He promised he wouldn't tell about his stupid fears about going back to the Dursleys. He swore he wouldn't mention his visit with the headmaster—though Professor Snape probably knew about that. Sitting under the scrutinizing glare of Professor Snape made him want to tell everything. But he wouldn't. He wasn't some little baby in need of comfort. He'd taken quite hard knocks without blinking. He was furious with himself for even thinking of crying to Professor Snape about his fears.

"Let's start with the easier question, then. What happened with your project?"

Harry sighed. "I—I don't know what happened. I mean, I do, I just . . . I left the lichen under the heat lamp too long one day and everything just fell apart after that. I just couldn't turn it in the way it was. You would have . . ."

"What? I would have, what?"

Harry shrugged.

"I would have humiliated you in front of your classmates? I would have called attention to your careless research methods? I would have exposed your inability to be perfect?"

Harry nodded, jutting out his chin in defiance at the end.

"Well, I accomplished that anyway, didn't I? Your transparent lie didn't help you. What was the difference in the end?"

Harry bit his lip and made some non-committal sound in the back of his throat.

"What made you think you could get away with that? That I would believe it? You were quite correct in that this is a simple project, at least for me. I know how these samples respond, and I can spot overexposure in an instant. You can't possibly have believed that I would have bought your ridiculous excuse."

Harry shrugged again, forcing down the words that he refused to say and unable to find others.

Professor Snape sighed and sat. "Why must teenage boys be so uncommunicative," he muttered under his breath.

"I didn't want to fail, okay? I didn't want you to think that—"

"What? That you're a student who was working on his first bryophyte project? That you're capable of making mistakes?"

Harry pursed his lips. "I didn't want to ruin my chances of going to Chile," he whispered.

There was a long silence after that. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Long silences—like summonses from the headmaster—were never good.

"Everyone has an equal chance, Harry. That is to say, everyone is being considered on his own merits. One project would not have kept you out of the running."

"But lying will, right?" Harry spat.

"Frankly I don't know that this will have an effect in the end," Professor Snape said, sounding as if he'd chosen his words very carefully.

Hope swelled within Harry. "Does that mean I'm still in the running?"

Professor Snape's expression was unreadable. "As I stated, everyone has an equal chance. But do understand, in this I will be unscrupulously fair. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Harry nodded, his mind racing with ways to ensure that he did nothing less than perfect on his remaining assignments. He'd show Professor Snape that he could be perfect. That he was sorely needed on the Chile project. That he was the fair choice.

"You look terrible. When did you sleep last?" Professor Snape asked.

Startled, Harry replied, "Um, two nights ago, I guess."

"As I suspected. Overtired, overemotional—you need a nap, just like a cranky toddler. I suppose I could rummage up a small cot for you. That's where cranky toddlers sleep, isn't it?"

"I don't need a cot."

"Then stop acting like a toddler."

"Yes sir."

"This will affect your final grade, you understand."

"Yes sir."

"I need some help in the large greenhouse—nothing exciting—mostly cuttings, cleaning up, and monitoring experiments. Perhaps if you were to do those things and write a few additional reports you might be able to make up for this project."

It felt like charity. Harry had never liked charity, but he was so desperate that he knew he'd take whatever Professor Snape offered. Yet despite knowing that, the mere thought of it rankled.

"Would you do that for Neville? For someone else?" Harry asked.

"Generally speaking, I would not. But there are always extenuating circumstances that must be considered."

"Yeah? And what's mine?"

"You're a young man who's got far too few second chances in life. A young man who needs a firm hand to guide him, not hurt him. I fear that outside these walls you would fall into a life that is far beneath you."

The hot, prickling tears were back. "I'm not weak or—or delicate. I can take care of myself."

"Of that I have no doubt. It is the manner in which you would accomplish it that is worrisome."

Harry opened his mouth, a hot retort ready to burst forth.

"We will not discuss this further," Professor Snape said, interrupting him. "You will go back to your room and sleep. I will inform the rest of your teachers that you are ill and unable to attend classes the rest of the day. This also means no slinking down to the stables, either. Or any visits from Mr. Malfoy during classes. Am I clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I trust we will never have to have a conversation like this one again."

"Yes sir. Thank you. For not, erm, having me expelled."

"It would serve no purpose in this instance. Rest assured, you will have to work very, very hard to bring your grade up . . . and to earn my trust. This is serious, Harry. I'm very disappointed in you."

Harry wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. The weight of Professor Snape's disapproval pushed him down, blanketing him with despair. He hated that he'd come to depend on Professor Snape's approval. Before, he'd never cared what people thought. Dependence made him weak. He'd learnt that a long time ago at Vernon Dursley's hand. But Wolsford had made him soft, had made him drop his guard. He was at a loss for how to regain that sense of isolation. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to, though, because it would mean losing Professor Snape's regard, Mrs. Malfoy's lovely notes and trinkets. It would mean losing Draco.

Harry wondered how people dealt with all of these feelings all of the time. He was exhausted. But first, he had his summer to secure. Then he could worry about everything else.

"I am sorry, sir. Truly. I just—I'm sorry," Harry said, hoping he hadn't also dashed his chances at going to Chile. "I'll do whatever you ask. No matter what the job is."

Professor Snape's expression seemed quite sad, which Harry didn't understand. "I'm sure you will," he said before dismissing him.

DDDDDDDDDD

Harry woke slowly, enjoying the warmth of his covers. He had no idea how long he'd slept and didn't much care about the time. In his bed, with the hangings closed, he was quite safe from the world. It was like . . . it was like his cupboard in some respects. How Harry hated admitting the comfort of that thought.

"Harry? You still asleep?"

A hand poked through his bed hangings, pulling them back. A pale blond head slipped through, gray eyes staring curiously.

"Draco," Harry rumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.

"You okay? Uncle Severus said you were ill. It's nearly dinner. Do you want me to bring something back for you?"

Nearly dinner? Harry couldn't believe he'd slept the entire day. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "No. I'll, um, just give me a minute. I'll get dressed."

Draco's concern melted into a leer. "Need a hand?"

"Ha. Not if I want to get dressed."

"You'll get dressed. Eventually," Draco said, already crawling into Harry's bed.

Harry held out his hands, as if to push him away. "Er, sorry. I'm . . . I'm not in the mood just now."

Draco paused with one knee on the bed. He cocked his head to the side. "This must be serious. Perhaps you should go to the hospital wing."

He reached out to feel Harry's forehead, but Harry ducked away.

"What's got into you?" Draco asked, his face flushing with what Harry imagined was embarrassment.

"Question of the day, it seems," Harry muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Sorry. I'm just . . . I dunno, out of sorts, I guess. I'm just not feeling up to anything at the moment."

Draco bit his lip and looked around. He looked down and his hair fell forward, obscuring his face. "We could, um, you know, just lay next to each other and, uh, talk or something."

"What, like a cuddle?"

Draco backed away from the bed. "No, you stupid sod. I just meant—forget it."

"Wait, Draco, come back. Sorry, you just took me by surprise. Um, I—I wouldn't be adverse to, you know, laying beside each other and just talking."

A smile slowly curved across Draco's face. "Now who's in the mood for a cuddle?"

Harry threw his pillow at Draco's head. "Don't be such an arse."

Draco caught the pillow with both hands and threw it back, snickering as it skimmed Harry's head, mussing his hair further.

"Hey!" Harry yelled.

"Oh, shut up," Draco said as he crawled onto the bed and settled on the left side. He snugged up to Harry and propped his head in his hand.

Harry sidled closer, feeling content for the first time in days. He took a deep breath, smiling at the smell of Draco's shampoo and soap powder and cologne. He didn't think he'd ever tire of that smell.

"So what's going on in that horribly mussed head of yours?" Draco asked, his fingers sliding up and down Harry's arm.

Harry shrugged. "Stupid stuff. Nothing to worry about."

"I'd believe you if you'd been acting like yourself at all these last two weeks, but you haven't. Is it . . . is it me? Are you—I mean to say, do you regret my birthday? Because we don't—"

Harry sat up and covered Draco's mouth with his fingers. "I don't regret a minute of it. It's not that. It's . . . like I said, it's stupid stuff. Stuff I have to work out."

"Oh."

Harry settled back down, letting Draco's soft fingers lull him.

"You could tell me about it, you know," Draco said.

Harry couldn't, though. He'd come close to saying something to Neville, Professor Snape, and even Ron a few days prior, but he couldn't tell Draco. Perhaps, Harry thought, it was because he was sure Draco would leave him the second he realized what a pathetic, lying, fuck-up he was. He'd tried to so hard to fit in, to be like everyone else at Wolsford, but the simple truth was he wasn't anything like any of the other boys. He never would be.

"Harry?"

"Sorry."

"What's going on?"

"Oh. Um, it's about Neville."

"What? What's Nervous Neville got to do with anything? Sorry—sorry, slip of the tongue."

"He, erm, he saw us."

Harry watched as Draco's expression of confusion slipped away, replaced by horror.

"How? When? Who has he told?" Draco asked in a breathless rush.

"Third floor. Last week. And he hasn't told anyone. He wouldn't—he won't."

"Damn it," Draco swore, scrambling off the bed. He ran his hand through his hair. "Damn it," he swore again as he started pacing in front of Harry's bed.

Harry lay there, watching, a sinking feeling settling into his stomach the more Draco fretted and paced.

"That's it. No more snogging or anything at school. Too many people know as it is, and now stupid Neville Longbottom knows. He'll probably spill it at dinner or something in some sort of nervous fit."

Harry sighed, suddenly tired beyond belief. "He's not going to say anything. He's not like that."

Draco stopped pacing and returned to Harry's bed. His fingers picked at the edge of Harry's green blanket. "He'd better not," he said sullenly.

"He won't."

Draco nodded, but didn't look up or stop fingering the edge of the blanket.

"He's not a bad guy. He's actually really nice. If you'd just take a second to get to know—"

"Harry, I'm not going to be friends with Longbottom, okay? Just—just drop it."

"It's just that, well, he said something quite nice about you."

Draco looked up, his expression questioning.

"He said . . . um, well he said that you were—that you were a bit of bully as a child and that . . . well I suppose I should get to the good part."

"Yes, please do."

"He said that when he saw us—on the third floor—that you, um, that you had a . . . nice expression on your face."

"What?"

Harry blushed. He ducked his head. "He said that—that you were, um, looking at me. Like I was important. He thought that was nice, that you could see me as important."

Harry tensed and berated himself for saying something so stupid. Soft fingers trailing down his cheek caught him by surprise. He leaned into the touch, turning to Draco. The expression on Draco's face almost stole his breath.

"You are important. And . . . I'm not perfect, Harry. I've done a lot of things that I wouldn't do again if given the chance."

"You don't have to be perfect," Harry said, meaning it with all his heart. He refused to think about the fact that he would never grant himself such clemency.

"Yeah?" Draco asked.

"Yeah. Promise," Harry murmured before leaning in and kissing Draco. He was tired of thinking so much. He needed to forget again.


	27. Quiet Before the Storm

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. Slowly, but surely, I am answering them . . . please forgive my tardiness.

CHAPTER 27: Quiet Before the Storm 

"Are you sure you're going to be okay over the break?" Ron asked as he hefted his luggage onto a small trolley in the Great Hall corridor.

"Yeah, course," Harry said with a shrug.

"At least it's only for the week. You'll get loads of work done."

"That's why I decided to stay," Harry said, the lie tasting like ash.

Ron licked his lips and looked around. "You could always come home with me, mate. With so many of us, Mum would never notice another teenage boy running around." Ron's eyes flicked up. "Though the black hair might be problematic. Rotten luck you're not ginger-haired."

"I don't really see that as a problem," Harry said, laughing.

"There's nothing wrong with ginger hair," Ron said, shifting his luggage and clearly trying to fight the blush blossoming across his face.

"No, there's not. And certainly not for one Miss Granger." Harry snickered as Ron's blush deepened.

"See if I ever invite you home again."

"Sorry, Ron. You know I don't mean anything by it, yeah?"

"Course you stupid prat. I'm not an idiot. I mean, have you met Fred and George?"

Harry laughed again, remembering his one and only meeting with Ron's devious twin brothers. "I still don't believe that they did half of that stuff."

"They did," Ron said with his serious face in place. "Trust me, mate, they did."

Harry smiled.

Ron cleared his throat. "I should go—don't want to miss the coach into town. You'll be okay?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm staying at school, Ron, not being thrown into the jungle."

"It's just that . . ." Ron hesitated. "You've been . . . you know."

Harry stiffened. "Been, what?"

Ron shrugged. "You know. Quiet, moody . . . erm . . . you've just seemed off, I guess."

Harry tilted his head to the side, willed his body to relax, and affected a lazy grin. A classic Harry Potter pose, one that he'd begun to use again with increasing frequency. Funny. He'd thought coming to Wolsford meant he wouldn't have to do such things anymore.

"I'm fine." Harry laughed lightly. He relaxed as Ron's troubled expression cleared. "You know, you'll make a good mummy one day."

Ron pushed Harry's shoulder. "Bloody prat. Okay, then. See you."

"See you," Harry said, watching Ron walk away, relieved that he'd made a brilliant escape once again.

He watched the other students leave, most getting into fancy cars and only a handful taking the coach into town to the train. He wished he was one the boys scrambling around with trunks, ducking his mother's attempts at hugs.

Fingers brushed his side, making him shiver. "Alcove in the hall," Draco whispered as he passed by.

Harry sighed—watching as a boy got into the backseat, his face split by his beaming smile—before turning away and following Draco at a safe distance.

He waited a few moments before ducking into the alcove, making sure no one saw him. As he entered, hands grabbed him and pushed him against the wall.

"Jesus, Draco," Harry said before Draco started kissing him. "Someone's happy," he murmured in between kisses.

"Got to get them all in now, before I go. Not much time," Draco said, nudging Harry's head to the side so that he could kiss his throat. He pulled back, his eyes shot with panic. "No one saw you, right?"

"No one saw me," Harry said with a bitter sigh. Draco's attack and subsequent panic at being found out was becoming something of a ritual.

"Good." Draco said, his hand caressing Harry's cock. "Fuck, it'll be forever till we can do this again."

Harry let out a hiss of pleasure. "It's—it's only a week," he got out before giving up on conversation all together.

DDDDDDDDDDDD

Somehow in the end, they wound up on the floor with their trousers undone and Harry's jumper half off.

"I'll never get tired of that," Draco said, sprawled against the wall.

"Hmm," Harry replied, irked and feeling quite confused as to why he was upset.

"Seven days without that. How will we stand it?"

"It's just a week."

"Yes, well, you've the whole school to yourself. I'm off with Mum on some insane trip to visit cousins I've never even heard of."

Harry hated thinking about Draco's trip, the abruptness of it, that he wasn't invited. He hated it almost as much as he did the confusing sense of discomfiture that seemed to well up inside after each secret meeting. He stood and started righting his clothes.

Draco followed suit, fussing with his collar and shirt cuffs until he deemed them presentable. "I suppose this is it," he said, reaching out and skimming his fingers down Harry's arm.

"You're off, then?"

Draco bit his lip and nodded. "I'm sorry about this. I didn't think Mum would schedule this 'imperative family trip' over the holiday. Are you going to be okay?"

Harry huffed. "I wish everyone would stop asking me that, and yes, I'll be fine. It's a week, Draco. Not eternity."

"I know. I just thought we'd spend the holiday together."

Harry waved him away, smiling and trying desperately to maintain a façade of nonchalance. "We'll have loads of holidays together. Besides, Professor Snape has lots of work for me."

"That's great that he asked you to help him in the greenhouse—says a lot about what he thinks of you."

Harry nodded, looking away. He hadn't told Draco about his failing grade or Professor Snape's punishment. Thank God his detentions with Filch had been out on the grounds.

"I'll get you something, a souvenir from Vienna."

Harry licked his lips. "Some chocolate, maybe?"

"Already on the list. I know all about your chocolate fetish. Perhaps I'll get the liquid kind?" Draco smiled that smile that only Harry ever got to see.

"Erm, sure," Harry said, kicking himself, wishing the suave words he could hear in his head had come out instead.

Draco laughed. He reached out, his hand squeezing Harry's shoulder. "I'll see you in a week."

"Yeah. A week."

Draco stared at him, as if memorizing every line, every hair, before turning away and darting out of the alcove. Harry watched him go, remaining in the shadows until the school was quiet and still.

DDDDDDDDDDD

"I need the cuttings to be extraordinarily precise. Two centimeters, nothing more, nothing less."

"Yes sir."

"And only from the tips. Anything lower than that will be useless."

"Yes sir."

"Find the healthiest stalk from each specimen—I don't want any shriveled cuttings."

"Yes sir," Harry said with an exasperated sigh. "Two centimeters from the healthiest tip. I get it."

Professor Snape looked over the top of his readers. "Watch it. And don't forget to place them in the solution."

Harry nodded, following with a mumbled, "Yes sir," as he placed a cutting in a small beaker of preserving solution.

"How is your project coming?"

"Fine. The lichen on the left looks exactly like the lichen on the right."

"No creative license taking?"

"No sir."

"Very well. Mind that cut—it looks a bit ragged."

Harry stared at the cutting. It looked like all the others to him and he liked to believe himself quite fastidious about something as important as a cutting. With a shrug and a promise to "mind his cuts," Harry returned to work.

They worked in companionable silence for a long while, the sound of snipping and chopping creating a soothing rhythm. That was until Professor Snape started taking in gulps of air as if he meant to say something. Harry's shot Professor Snape a furtive glance, wondering when he'd just get on with saying whatever it was he was avoiding. It made Harry very nervous.

"The headmaster mentioned that he'd spoken with you."

Harry stared at the stalk he was getting ready to cut, not moving. "Yeah. Funny bloke."

Professor Snape glared at him, but Harry just shrugged in response.

"Have you made any applications?"

Harry continued staring at the stalk, making no moves to cut it. "Applications to where?"

Professor Snape didn't say anything for several long seconds, instead concentrating on a delicate graft. "I would be very careful if I were you," he said at long last, making a final, precise cut. "I've been playing games much longer than you've been alive."

Harry's face colored with embarrassment.

"Now I'll ask you again, have you made any applications?"

Harry shook his head.

"Why not?"

Harry shrugged again, the tenor of the conversation making him anxious. "Don't need to."

"And why's that?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I applied for Chile," he said, not daring to look up.

Professor Snape didn't reply.

"If that doesn't work out, I'll stay with Draco for the holiday."

"The headmaster has encouraged everyone who applied for Chile to apply for other opportunities, as well. You're not the only one."

"Yeah, I know," Harry said, his heart hammering in his chest.

"I would hate to see you waste your holiday when you could be learning something that will help you later, both here at Wolsford and in your career."

Harry made a particularly vicious snip with his shears, trying to get out with action what he didn't want to say with words.

"Mind your cuts."

"What's it matter? It's not like I'm going to Chile, yeah? Isn't that what you're trying to tell me?"

"I've told you time and time again, no decision has been made and you will be considered along with everyone else who has applied. But it would do for you to have a back-up—Draco is not a back-up. He is an indulgence."

"He is not. He lov—" Harry stopped himself in time, glad he'd not said something so ridiculous as . . . as . . . no, he wouldn't even think the word. It wasn't like Draco had ever said it. And why would he? It wasn't like Draco wanted anyone to know about them.

"He, what?" Professor Snape asked, as if he'd been asking it for sometime and Harry had only just noticed.

"What?"

Professor Snape put his knife down with a heavy thud. "What is wrong with you? Are you on drugs? Has Draco gotten you mixed up in something?"

"No! How could you even think that about him? About _me_? What, because I've got knocked around in life, I'm automatically a waster? Some sort of smackhead? Well thank you very much."

"Don't try to play the indignation card with me. You're sitting there staring off into space, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed, refusing to respond to my _repeated_ questions. You've been distracted and anxious for weeks now. Just what was I supposed to think?"

"Maybe—Maybe—Look, just stop talking."

Surprisingly, Professor Snape did. He pursed his lips so hard Harry was sure they'd fall off, but he didn't say anything else for a long while. Harry thought he'd like that, but instead it just gave him time to think.

"Why didn't Mrs. Malfoy want me to come with them?" he blurted some time later.

Professor Snape's hand jerked, almost causing him to miscalculate his cut. "Excuse me?"

"Does she not want me to come this summer, too? Is that what this is all about?"

"Are you ill? If it's not drugs, are you seriously deranged? Never mind—don't answer that. You would not have been permitted to leave for the spring holiday even if she had invited you, so why does it matter?"

It wasn't lost on Harry that Professor Snape had completely ignored his question about the summer, making him feel more anxious than he already was. "So? It matters to me. Why didn't she want me? Not good enough for Draco, am I?" Harry sneered.

"What is wrong with you? Talking to you is like dealing with a toddler."

Harry didn't know what was wrong with him. He just had all of this—this anger, these feelings—none of which he had any idea what to do with, except that he wanted them out.

"I am not!" he retorted, sounding like a child even to his ears.

"I refuse to talk to you when you are like this. Leave. You can return this evening and work alone."

The words ripped through Harry, hurting deeply. Even Professor Snape couldn't stand to be around him. "Whatever," he snapped, blindly pushing away his specimen tray. "Don't do my any fucking favors," he snarled as he slammed the door to the greenhouse, running as fast he could.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Harry didn't know how long he ran. He stopped, gasping for breath, and doubled over. Once he could breathe without painful contractions in his side, he looked around. It really wasn't surprising where he'd wound up.

"'lo there, Harry," Mr. Hagrid bellowed, yelling from the front of the stables once he'd caught sight of him.

Harry waved back, wishing Mr. Hagrid hadn't spotted him. He just . . . he wanted to be alone. What was wrong with being alone?

Mr. Hagrid beckoned him over with a huge grin on his face. Harry sighed and made his way over.

"Hello, Mr. Hagrid."

"Saw you runnin' out there. Like a house a'fire, you were. Like old Buckbeak on a tear. I saw you and thought to myself, what's got that lad's back up li' that? You alright there, Harry?"

"Yes, sir. Er, sorry. I just, um—" Harry shook his head. "I was working with Professor Snape, and—"

"Bah. Say no more. One word from Professor Snape's enough to get any man's back up. He swoops round li' a damn bat sometimes."

Harry's jaw fell in utter shock. He'd never heard an adult utter a bad word about Professor Snape. But then Mr. Hagrid's description caught up with him. Harry clamped his hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the giggles begging to get out at the thought of Professor Snape with massive wings sprouting from his back.

Mr. Hagrid didn't bother hiding his mirth. "Go on, then. Let it out. A bit of a laugh never hurt a man. Even one as prickled as Professor Snape. Why, he's like some of them persnickety plants o' his."

Harry couldn't stop the sniggering laughter. Mr. Hagrid chuckled right along with him until finally they both stopped. Harry felt immeasurably better.

"Prickly as they come, I say, but make no mistake about Snape," Mr. Hagrid said, sounding very serious all of a sudden. "He cares quite a bit for ya. Never thought I'd see that man take to anyone. But you—scruffy and scrappy as that damn horse in there—you, he takes to. Ain't that a right sight?"

"What? What do you mean?"

Mr. Hagrid waved away his questions. "Nothing particular. Just . . . he's always coming down, making damn sure you've not got on Buckbeak, that the tack's in order, that you know how to use it all proper, that you're not spending too much time here when you should be learnin." Mr. Hagrid shook his head. "Like I said, never thought I'd see that man take to a soul."

"He has a funny way of showing it," Harry mumbled.

"And you've got a right smart mouth on you."

"I do not!"

Mr. Hagrid gave Harry a look that said, quite clearly, 'I shovel shit for a living. I know what it is when I see it.' That was what Harry liked about Mr. Hagrid. He was honest—no airs, no snobby words—he was just Mr. Hagrid. And Harry was just Harry. He didn't have to pretend.

"He just makes me so angry," Harry said.

"Probably 'bout as angry as you make him."

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Hagrid's heavy hand on his shoulder startled him.

"It's what lads do—it's what all lads do. Tearing through the world, eager to make your own way, so sure you know every damn thing. Heh. But Snape'll keep you straight. He's got his eye on you. Taken to you, he has, just like I said. Never thought I'd see the day."

"Erm, why are you telling me this?"

Mr. Hagrid shrugged. "Because a smart lad like you gets a little too smart for his own good sometimes."

"I don't . . . what do you mean?"

Mr. Hagrid huffed. "You'll have to figure that out for yourself, now won't ya?"

Before Harry could press him, Mr. Hagrid was shooing him away. "Off you go. I've got work to do. And you've got prickly plant things to do. Come round tomorrow if you like and I'll let you tend to Buckbeak."

"Thanks, Mr. Hagrid. And, um, thanks."

Mr. Hagrid nodded and turned back to his work.

Harry started the slow trek back, wondering what Mr. Hagrid had been trying tell him.

DDDDDDDDDDD

The leaves were long and glossy, the green of them a brilliant lime. Gold flecks dotted their centers, the variegation looking like sprinkled fairy dust instead of mottled cream. The stalk was tall and graceful, standing impossibly straight. Regal. The small, waxy flowers at the end in profusion were popping like white starbursts and crackling with fire in their ruby-red throats.

Harry's fingers ran along the edge of the leaves, not daring to touch any other part, mesmerized by the plant, completely baffled as to what it might be. How he wished he'd had something like this in his little garden behind the Dursleys' house. He'd have kept it secret, coveting it, not caring a whit about the jasmine and four o'clocks' jealousy.

His eyes fluttered closed, remembering his garden, remembering a time when his plants had been his escape. How had he gotten so far off track?

Plants didn't expect things, but people did. Even Harry had come to expect things, to hope for them. He missed the simplicity of his life from before. Somehow the bad parts seemed bearable now, covered as they were with the pleasant haze of distance and time. Sure his room was small and his aunt and uncle unbearable. Okay, he didn't get to eat that much and there were, of course, Uncle Vernon's fists and moods to contend with. But he was invisible for the most part. No one cared a whit about his life or his future. When he escaped, he escaped totally. That wasn't so bad, was it?

There were times when he wanted that again. There were times when he even longed for it. That terrified him.

And what of Draco? Mrs. Malfoy? Professor Snape? What of them if Harry were to go back to a life less lived?

"They don't matter," he said aloud, his fingers still tracing the edges of the leaves, shoving away the voice that told him that was his greatest lie.

"What doesn't matter?"

Harry started, knocking over a few clay pots in his surprise. He scrambled to his feet and turned around. "You startled me."

Professor Snape's eyes lingered on the broken pots. "So I see."

"I'm sorry about the pots."

"No harm done."

Harry nodded and fidgeted with the hem of his jumper while the silence stretched. He looked up and saw Professor Snape surveying the greenhouse.

"You've done some cleaning," Professor Snape said.

"I got done with the cuttings. Figured I'd sort things out."

"Where are the cuttings?"

"In the far corner. Best light in the greenhouse as near as I can tell. I was very careful moving your things."

"So I see." Professor Snape walked over to the cuttings and inspected. "And the empty pots?"

"Here. In the back. Near these, erm . . . other plants."

"You mean, near my failed experiments."

Heat crept across Harry's cheeks. He dropped his head.

"You've done a good job. Thank you."

Harry shrugged. "Nothing really. Just moving some things around, stacking empty pots."

"Nevertheless, you were not required to do so and you've done it on your own. That deserves a moment's thanks."

"Yes, sir."

Professor Snape moved around the greenhouse, inspecting things, making comments here and there. Talking about everything except what had happened earlier in the day.

It was a strange dance they were doing, but one that Harry knew quite well. There were times when Aunt Petunia seemed almost sorry for some of the things Uncle Vernon did. She never said as much, but after particularly difficult nights, she sometimes gave Harry pudding or commented that the kitchen floor was especially clean. It was as close to an apology as he ever got. He supposed that's why he'd cleaned the greenhouse, it was the only apology he knew how to give in situations like this. Especially after what Mr. Hagrid had said.

"I see you've found my _pleurathalis marthae_ hybrid, Professor Snape said, gesturing to the white flowers that had captured Harry's attention earlier.

"Yeah. I found it with the other . . . erm, I found it here in the back."

"It's all right. You can call it what it is—one of many failed experiments."

"But it's beautiful."

"And yet, still a failure."

"Why? Why is it a failure?" Harry heard his voice rise and was disgusted by his whinging. No wonder Professor Snape thought him a child.

"Because it didn't do what I needed it to do. Therefore the experiment was a failure."

"Just because it didn't behave the way you wanted, it's a failure? It did something different and look at it, it's just as—just as good as if it'd done what you wanted."

"I know that, Harry."

"Er, what?"

"I said, I know. I know that it's fine the way it is, even if it didn't do what I wanted, or meet my expectations."

"Oh. You do?"

"Why do you think it's still here? Obviously cared for and not wild and overgrown like these others?"

"Oh."

"My experiment was a failure. The plant wasn't. Do you understand the difference?"

"I—"

"You should take care of it, I think. It's too beautiful to stay locked up in here, neglected. It needs good light, daily misting with water and a thorough soak once every three weeks. Nitrogen is incredibly important, so its soil must be cultivated lightly with a variety of minerals. The flowers must be pinched off as soon as they're spent and at the end of the blooming season, the lower leaves must be removed. Do you think you can remember all of that?"

Harry nodded, wide-eyed.

"Good. I expect you to take very good care of it. I've always had a soft-spot for it. You'll take it with you this summer and look after it—regardless of where you spend your summer," he said before Harry could interrupt with more questions about Chile. "It's rather delicate looking, I know, but it's as hardy as a conifer in some respects. It can live anywhere."

"Yes sir."

"All right, then. Off to bed with you, I think. Tomorrow we'll start on my next experiment."

Professor Snape didn't wait for a reply as he swept out of the greenhouse, trusting Harry to lock up for the night. Harry turned back to the _pleurathalis marthae_ and fingered its soft, lower leaves, grateful for Professor Snape's apology—the only one he likely knew how to give, as well.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

One moment, Harry was walking down the corridor, thinking about everything he still had to look up for his literature essay. In the next, he'd been yanked into a broom cupboard, pushed against the wall and devoured by Draco's lips.

"What the bloody hell?" he managed to ask in between kisses.

"Wanted to surprise you."

"How'd you know--_stop that_--how'd you know I'd be here?"

"Simple. Near the end of the holiday and I knew you'd leave your literature essay to last."

"Bollocks," Harry said, trying to push Draco away.

"All right, and I saw you walking up and down the corridor, completely oblivious to everything around you. Just how many trips back to our rooms did you make?"

Harry turned away, accidentally burying his face in a musty mop. "Oh, for the love—so you, what, popped in here? Waiting? Figuring I'd show up again?"

"Exactly." Draco's face beamed with pride. He leaned in for another kiss. "You talk too much, did you know?" He pawed at Harry's jumper and tried undoing his trousers, but the space was so small and cramped that he knocked over several metal buckets in the process.

Harry wanted out.

"There's no one here, Draco. You could have just stopped me in the corridor. You could have kissed me there if you wanted."

Draco drew back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"There's no deep meaning to it."

Draco straightened his jumper and smoothed back his hair. His face had shuttered and taken on the sneering quality that Harry disliked. "Great. This again. Well, someone's in a right mood."

Harry sighed. He didn't want to fight. He'd had enough tension over the holiday with Professor Snape. He didn't want that with Draco, too.

"I'm just saying, isn't there somewhere else a bit more, erm, comfortable that we could say hello?"

"Like where?"

"Our room, for starters. Blaise and Ron won't be back before tomorrow afternoon."

"I'd forgot that."

"Yes, well, good thing you have me here to do your thinking for you."

"Prat."

"But you can't seem to keep your hands off me, can you? Prat and all?"

"Oh, so that's the way it's going to be." There was an amused glint in Draco's voice.

Harry laughed. "Yeah, it is. You've got to work for it."

"That won't be a problem."

Draco leaned in for another kiss, but this one was slow and confident. Harry groaned and clutched at him harder, bringing him as close as he could. He could feel Draco's erection and part of him urged him to finish them off right there, right then. But the bigger part of him wanted to do this in the open, like normal people in a normal relationship. He was tired of sneaking around and having clandestine meetings in broom cupboards.

"Back to the room. Now," Harry said, his voice rough.

Draco pulled back and opened the door, taking Harry by the hand and tugging him into the corridor, but not before looking both ways, Harry noticed. The minute they were free, Draco let his hand go. The loss of it left Harry feeling cold.

"Have a good holiday?" Draco asked as they walked side by side.

"Fair, I guess. You?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Bloody fantastic."

Harry sniggered. He stopped walking a moment later. "Hey, you're back early."

"Just figured that out?"

"Wanker. Why? Why are you back early?"

Draco looked a bit ill at ease. "No reason. Just finished up early," he said, the evasiveness of it practically smacking them both in the face.

"But that doesn't make sense. You had tickets and things. Hotels. Obscure relatives to see. How do you finish up something like that early?"

Draco's lips pressed into a thin line. "I had to finish my literature essay, didn't I?"

"But you finished that—oh. _Oh_." Harry smiled, knowing it was goofy and shy, but he'd just realized why Draco was back early. He grabbed him round the middle and kissed him soundly. "You missed me."

"Maybe I did," Draco said, not giving anything away, which only served to make Harry smile even more.

"Want to show me how much?"

Draco smiled in response. It was cool and calculating and made Harry shiver in a very good way. He leaned in and nibbled the shell of Harry's ear before whispering, "You have no idea." He grabbed his hand and pulled him along, promise held fast in the grip of his fingers.


	28. Buckbeak's Flight

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Special thanks this time around to Klynie, Sevslilsecret and joanwilder for assistance with the technical aspects of this chapter. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. I am in awe of your thoughtfulness and your sharing.

**CHAPTER 28: Buckbeak's Flight**

Harry sat at his lab table, nervously rearranging his journal and pencils. After having done it the third time, he scowled and shoved everything to the side. He glanced around the room. His eyes narrowed. Whitehorn looked a tad too smug for his tastes, like he knew something. His heart beat uncomfortably fast. He tore his gaze away, letting it fall on the disarray of journals and pencils. God, it looked terrible. He was about to start rearranging again when Professor Snape swept into the room.

"Quiet," he said, quelling the class chatter. Today was the day—it had to be. There was only one week left in the term and Professor Snape still hadn't announced who he'd chosen as his assistants.

"You okay?" Neville whispered out of the side of his mouth.

Harry nodded.

"Before we begin, I have an announcement to make. I have chosen my assistants for my research in Chile."

Harry leaned forward, anticipation roiling through his gut.

"Thank you to all whom applied. Your applications were exemplary."

Harry caught Professor Snape's eye for a moment, but it was Professor Snape's gaze that skittered away. Harry barely held back the whimper—because that was the only way a sound expressing a mix of silent desperation and helpless frustration could be described—by digging his fingernails into his palms.

"However, I was only permitted two. Now, we have less than a week until end of term exams, I suggest we get started."

Professor Snape turned towards the blackboard and began his lecture.

That was it. Nothing more. A silent defeat.

Furious whispering broke out, Harry noted with the detached glimpse of the world that accompanied shock.

"Professor Snape, sir," Dennis Coatfield called.

"Yes, Mr. Coatfield?"

"Erm, when are you going to announce who you selected?"

A brief surge of hope kindled—

"Those who have been selected have been made aware. If they choose to share it with you, they may."

—before dying again.

"Now as I was saying before your ridiculous interruption, the bryophyte classification system is an elegant response to . . ."

Harry had stopped listening.

He sat there, blinking, feeling as though ice water had been poured down his back, or more aptly, his brain. This couldn't be happening. There had to be a mistake. There had to be.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry looked up. Neville was gone, as were all of the other students. He twisted around and looked at the clock. Class had ended.

He looked up into the expectant face of Professor Snape. "I didn't get my letter," he said, his muscles shaking from nerves.

"I'm sorry?"

"My letter. Telling me that I was one of your assistants. I didn't get it."

Professor Snape glanced to the side and Harry's stomach clenched. He felt like there wasn't enough air in the room.

"I never told you that you would be picked."

Harry knew—he figured he'd known for a while, now—but still he gasped. "Why?" he choked out, swiping at the corners of his eyes.

"This is not the project for you. In the end, I felt that it did not suit your strengths. The other two students selected were a better match. I'm sorry. But—"

Harry's laughter shot out in short, percussive bursts, the sound raw and angry. "You're sorry. Isn't that rich. You're _sorry_? Do you have any idea what this means? Do you?"

"If you would just stop acting like an idiot for a moment and listen to me, you'd understand—"

"Oh, I understand loads. I _understand_, professor. I get it." Harry leapt from his lab stool and began shoving his books into his satchel. He staggered backward as Professor Snape's hand reached out and tugged his elbow.

"Don't touch me. Don't you ever fucking touch me," Harry said, surprised at the shrillness and fear in his voice.

Professor Snape pursed his lips and took a step backward, a cold wave of indifference washing across his face. "I will not talk to you when you are like this. There are things we need to discuss. If you would only listen to me, you would see that there is no need for these—"

"Listen to you? Why should I? Why should I listen to you anymore? You can fuck yourself, Snape. And, yeah, go ahead and expel me for that if you want. Not like it's going to make a fucking difference."

Harry ran from the room, slamming the door behind him, pushing aside the voice that hoped Professor Snape would run after him, and forcing back the bitter disappointment when he didn't.

DDDDDDDDDDDD

Harry sat in the corner, nursing his third lager, figuring out ways to stay out of sight from the Dursleys over the summer. Perhaps Mr. Wells would let him keep guard over the nursery at night? He didn't need much in the way of lodgings. Besides, it would keep him from getting soft again.

He glanced across the room, envious of the way Draco moved so easily among their classmates. Harry still hadn't told him about Chile. He wondered if he'd get away with not telling him at all.

Of course, Draco wasn't looking at him. Harry had told him to fuck off earlier. For once Draco had listened, stomping off and leaving him to sulk. Alone.

". . . and that guard from the Pembly Phoenixes? Have you seen him play? He'd do as well if someone tied his feet together," McLaggen said.

A burst of drunken laughter broke out at his ridiculous attempts at talking football. Harry couldn't believe that idiot was back again. The Cottage should be sacred from the likes of him.

"Of course, it might have something to do with him being a bloody shirtlifter. Did you hear? He and his _partner_ are to have a civil union. A fairy stuck with a ball and chain? The Pembly Phoenixes will never get off the ground."

A few more titters of laughter followed. Harry felt angry, humiliated.

"Why don't you just shove off, McLaggen," he said, leaping to his feet. He must have been a bit louder than he thought, given the number of glances that came his way. In the corner of his vision, he thought he saw Draco moving towards him, but he didn't care. "What do you care if he's gay? What, that makes him unable to play, or something?" Harry asked, undaunted by the tension in the room. He was angry, half-drunk, and spoiling to let some of his anger go. McLaggen had started this, but Harry would finish it.

"Piss off, stable boy. This has nothing to do with you. I was merely discussing current events with my mates here and you shoved your dirty little lowborn nose where it doesn't belong. Though that's not surprising. That's all you know to do, isn't it, stable boy?"

Harry rushed forward with an indescribable sound of fury, his fist balled, ready to take a swing. Just before he could, someone caught him round the middle and pulled him back.

"Get the fuck off of me," Harry howled, working furiously to wrench himself free.

"Stop it, Harry! Stop," Draco said, pulling him backward.

"Let me go!"

"That's right, keep him away from me, Malfoy. Put your _boy_ on a damn leash!" McLaggen said.

"Fuck you!" Harry said, struggling anew, swinging his fists wildly, hitting nothing but air.

"He's not my boy, you asshole," Draco said. "Damn it, Harry, stop it."

"He deserves it. Let me go!"

"What the hell is going on?" Ron asked, pushing into the crowd.

"That little wanker barged into a private conversation," McLaggen said, pointing his finger at Harry.

"Yeah, one where you spewed—" Harry began, but Draco interrupted.

"Watch yourself, McLaggen," Draco said, squeezing Harry hard when he tried to get away.

"Keep him the bloody hell away from me. That little thief should never have been allowed in."

Harry wrenched himself free and charged McLaggen, enjoying the fear he saw in his eyes, enjoying the power it gave him. And it was that—more than anything—that made him stop. In that split-second, he wondered if fear was what his uncle had seen. Relished. With a strangled cry, he ran out of the cottage.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Draco turned up hours later. He didn't even ask how Harry had got back to the school.

"You okay?" he asked.

Harry nodded.

Draco sighed. "I'm tired of this shit, Harry. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What do you think?"

"Why do you let McClaggen get to you? He's a stupid jerk who doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Funny, it sounded like you agreed with him."

"I didn't agree with him. I didn't even say anything. I just wasn't in the mood to get into a gay rights discussion with someone who doesn't give a shit about gays. And I didn't see you clamoring to come out."

"You know what? It's not even about him. It's about—fuck it. Never mind." Harry turned away and leaned against the window.

"What? What's it about, then?"

"I said never mind. Just leave it, Draco."

"Oh, no you don't. You've been a right berk all week and I want to know what the fuck is going on."

"No. You don't."

Harry gasped as Draco gripped him by the shoulders and spun him around, knocking his back into the window. "What the fuck is wrong?" Draco snarled.

"Why don't you want to tell anyone about us? Are you ashamed of me?"

Draco staggered back for a moment, before regaining his composure. He sighed. "Christ, not this again. No, I am not ashamed of you."

Harry didn't believe him. "Fine. Whatever. Are you ashamed of yourself, then? Ashamed of being gay?"

Draco shushed him with a furious wave of his arm. "Not so loud! How many times do we have to go over this? I'm not ashamed, but I don't see any reason to shout it from the rooftops. Do you know what they'll do to us when they find out we're . . . we're gay? That we're involved? They'll try to hurt us. They'll shun us, make us feel different, like there's something wrong with us."

"So? So what? Ron knows. Blaise knows—even Neville knows. So do Professor Snape and your mum. No one's crucified us yet. And I don't care about the others."

"You can't . . .We go to an all-boys boarding school, Harry. We talked about this. We agreed. We fucking _agreed_."

"I don't care. If you thought us worth it, you wouldn't either. There's nothing wrong with what we are."

Draco turned away, staying silent.

"Draco? Don't you—"

"It's not that simple."

"It is. I mean, it is if you believe it." Harry's breath caught in his throat. "Don't you believe it?"

Draco stared at the floor.

"Draco?"

"You don't understand."

Harry fought to keep from running across the room, slamming Draco into the wall, and pummeling him until he felt the way Harry did at that moment. Draco didn't believe they were worth it. Harry was fine for broom cupboards and horse stalls, but not the dining hall or posh garden parties. The familiar, bitter tang of being expendable rose in his throat. He swallowed it down before it could choke him. "I think I _do _understand."

Draco turned at Harry's icy whisper. "You don't understand. This isn't about you, Harry. Believe it or not, not _every fucking thing is about you_. It's about the rest of the world. It doesn't understand people like you and me. There's no reason to flaunt it in their faces. Then we're only inviting trouble."

Harry found it hard to keep his breathing regular. "I'm not going to let pricks like McClaggen make me feel like there's something wrong with me. If it happens again, I _will _come out right then and there." Harry took a step forward. "I need to know if you're with me in this."

"It's not that simple!"

"It is."

"It's not. You don't understand."

"What is there to understand, Draco? We kiss, we suck each other's cocks, I let you shove your fingers up my arse on your birthday. We're gay. There's not much more to it."

"No one wants to hear that. Christ, no one wants to hear Ron get all moony over kissing Hermione."

"Stop changing the fucking subject. What's the problem with coming out? What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid."

"Then stop acting like a damn pansy and stand up for who you are, for who _I _am."

"You don't get it! You can't just force me to come out when I don't want to! I don't want people to know!"

Harry took a step back and dropped his gaze to the floor. He let the silence hang for a long while. "Please leave."

"Harry—"

"Get out. Don't want you to have to spend any more time with that sick pouf, Harry Potter."

"How dare you tell me—"

Harry backed away. He could feel the walls pressing in. Draco had to leave. Harry couldn't stand to see him. "Get out. I don't want you here."

"You don't get to decide—"

"Get out!"

"I'm not—"

"Get OUT!"

"Harry. Stop. You're not making—"

"Get the fuck out! Get out, get out, GET OUT!" Harry threw his water glass, watching it shatter inches from Draco's head.

Draco ducked to avoid the spray of glass shards. "Have you lost your effing mind? Don't answer that. I'm going back to the cottage." Without a second glance, he turned on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

Harry felt like he couldn't breathe. He slid down the wall and dropped his head to his knees. In one week, his world had upended. First Professor Snape and the dread of having to go back to the Dursleys' for the summer holiday, and now this. He should have known what little happiness he had would be snatched away.

Harry pulled at his hair, holding his head in his hands. His eyes rested on his school books and journals. His Botany journal sat on top, ready to be turned in for final grading. He snorted as tears blistered at the corner of his eyes. He spent forever fretting over his stupid Botany journal, that stupid class, and bloody stupid Professor Snape. His insides turned and squeezed in embarrassment as he thought about the time he'd told Snape that he thought of him like a father-figure, and how he'd done those things with Draco. Poor, stupid, delusional Harry.

He swallowed. None of that mattered, now. He'd wasted too many tears over these stupid people and this stupid school. If they didn't want him, then fine. He didn't want them either. He would leave. He would run away and never think of them again.

Harry leapt to his feet.

Could he do it? Could he really run away? His heart raced. He imagined living a quiet, bohemian life in a groundskeep cottage at a large nursery. Maybe a small coastal town? Surely he'd find work at a nursery. He could buy a bicycle with the money he saved and go to market every few days, trading pleasantries with the old woman minding the register.

He ran his hand through his hair and looked around at all of the stuff he'd managed to accumulate in less than a year. He started packing.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Harry approached Buckbeak's stall with caution. "Hey there, boy."

It was nearly three o'clock in the morning. He'd managed to pack and leave before everyone had returned from the cottage.

Harry made to pet Buckbeak, but—as if he could sense Harry's impending hysteria—he snorted and stamped his hoof, shuffling away from Harry's hand.

"Come on now, no reason to be like that."

The other horses were already gone. Mr. Hagrid had given Harry the key, asking him to keep up with Buckbeak while he was away. Harry felt a twinge of guilt at abusing Mr. Hagrid's trust, but he had to get away and Buckbeak was his only choice. He'd simply board Buckbeak in town once he arrived, explaining that he was there on Mr. Hagrid's orders. Once Mr. Hagrid returned and found Harry's letter, Harry would be long gone to any place that his small amount of savings would take him.

He dropped his old knapsack on the ground as he lifted the latch to Buckbeak's stall. He'd left most of the fancy things Mrs. Malfoy had bought for him behind, taking only a few changes of clothing, an extra pair of shoes, and the few personal items he had. He'd almost left his Parkinson book behind out of spite, but couldn't bear to leave it.

Buckbeak snorted and stamped his back hoof again.

"It's okay, Buckbeak. Time for a little ride, yeah? Just you and me."

Harry pulled the apple slices from his pocket and held them out. Buckbeak stared at him for a moment, as if trying to figure out what Harry wanted, before he tossed his mane back and forth and stepped forward. He started eating the apple slices, whinnying as Harry brushed his other hand through his coat and told him what a beautiful boy he was.

After two apples and nearly half an hour of brushing and soothing words, Buckbeak consented to being saddled and bridled. He stamped his hooves and swished his tail back and forth throughout, but didn't pull away as Harry cinched the saddle tighter and made sure the bit and bridle were properly fitted.

Harry hitched his knapsack over his shoulders. Buckbeak stared him down, as if he knew Harry was apprehensive. And why wouldn't he be? Buckbeak was a massive black Arabian, full of fiery temperament and largely uncontrolled. Harry could not handle this horse. But it was the only way. He had to get away. With that thought in mind, he steeled his nerve and took up his mount, hoping to God that Buckbeak didn't kill them both before they made it to town.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Draco, Ron and Blaise stumbled into their room, glad to have snuck past Filch. "Shh!" Draco said, as Ron started giggling. "You'll wake Harry."

"Oh, yes, mustn't wake the little princess."

Draco jerked his head back and glared. "Don't you ever call him that again."

"What? Oh come on. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant he's been a temperamental snot for the last week. Oi! What have we done to him?" Ron hissed.

"Shut up."

"Yes, your highness. Not like you've been much better, by the way. What's got into you?"

"Nothing," Draco said, feeling his way towards his bed, pissed off at Harry.

Harry and his insane insecurities; Harry and his refusal to be anything remotely conventional; Harry and his goddamned unflinching principles. Couldn't he see that not everyone was as fearless or reckless as him? Couldn't he understand that Draco could love and be proud of him without wanting the world to know he was a gay sixteen-year-old? There were things about Harry that Draco feared he would never understand.

"Just . . . just shut up. Let's go to bed," Draco said.

Blaise moved to turn on the lights.

"What are you doing?" Draco hissed.

"I can't bloody see, you idiot. Besides, Harry sleeps with his curtains closed. I doubt a little light'll disturb him."

Before Draco could stop him, Blaise flicked on the light.

Draco's gaze shot to Harry's bed, hoping they hadn't woken him. He gasped at the sight of the made bed, piles of folded clothing and stacked books.

"What the bloody hell?" Ron said, as all three of them made their way over to Harry's bed.

Propped on the books was a note addressed "To Whom it May Concern." Draco's heart stopped beating for a long, painful moment. He picked up the note with a shaky hand, ripping it open.

"What's it say?" Blaise asked.

"I, Harry James Potter, formally withdraw from Wolsford Academy. Ask the Dursleys. They'll agree. I've taken the liberty of removing myself from school and have made my own travel arrangements. I leave my final projects for my courses, my textbooks, and my uniforms. Thank you."

Draco couldn't breathe. He read the note again, sure that he'd mistaken some of the words in the darkness and that it couldn't possibly say what he thought it did. When he couldn't make the words change or rearrange themselves or mean something different, he threw the note to the floor and began ransacking the uniforms and books and journals, frantic to find another note, one addressed to him. Books fell to the floor. The green cashmere throw knocked over Ron's bedside lamp. A journal landed on his chest.

"Oi! Draco!" Ron said, ducking out of the way of flying objects.

Draco spun around. "He's run away. Harry's run away."

"I'll get Professor Snape," Blaise said, turning towards the door.

"No! Don't. He'll—we've got to find him. No one else. They'll expel him if he's done what I think he's done."

"What do you mean, what he's done?" Blaise asked.

"We don't have time to debate this. Let's go," Draco said, striding towards the door.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked, trying to keep up.

"The stables," Draco answered tersely, hoping that they'd make it in time. "No more talking and stop your shoes from making that squeaking sound, Blaise. It's louder than your bloody alarm."

"What do you suggest I do, then?" Blaise whispered furiously, already hopping from one foot to the next, removing his shoes.

"I expect you to figure it out," Draco whispered back, crouching low as they snuck past a now-snoozing Filch.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

So far, Harry thought, things were going all right. Buckbeak, who thus far hadn't done more than a fast trot, was being remarkably well-behaved. He seemed to only have short bursts of energy, spending most of his time standing still and eating grass. Harry had made the mistake of prodding him along only once.

He twisted around. He could still see the stables in the distance. They'd not made it very far.

"I assure you there's better grass in town. Let's go to town. Don't you want to go to town?" Harry asked, jiggling and snapping the reins in hopes of getting Buckbeak to move.

Buckbeak ignored him, instead whinnying with delight at having just found what Harry suspected was a patch of clover.

Harry cursed under his breath. "I can't even run away properly."

Frustrated, he pulled back on the reins far harder than he'd intended. Startled, Buckbeak reared back, nearly throwing Harry in the process.

"Whoa, boy. Whoa!" Harry cried, trying desperately to stay seated.

Before he knew what was happening, Buckbeak took off at a full gallop.

"Stop! Whoa!" Harry cried, pulling on the reins as hard as he could, kicking his heels into Buckbeak's sides. But nothing worked. Buckbeak ignored him completely.

The few times when Vernon had been especially vicious, Harry had been quite afraid. Coming to Wolsford had been panic inducing. But nothing compared to the terror of riding Buckbeak.

They galloped along the fence line. Harry clenched his teeth and held on for dear life. As long as he could hold on, he'd be okay. He tucked his body closer and pressed his knees against Buckbeak's sides.

An animal skittered across their path—a fox or something, Harry couldn't tell. Buckbeak roared and reared back, punching his hooves in the air. Harry could feel his fingers slipping, could feel his body sliding out of the saddle. His right ankle wrenched as it slipped in the stirrup.

Buckbeak came down with a jaw-rattling jolt, before taking off again at a very brisk cantor. Harry fell to the side, desperately clutching at the reins with one hand, while the other grabbed a handful of Buckbeak's mane. He kicked his right foot away from the stirrup as hard as he could, afraid his foot would be snapped in two if he fell.

Just as he untangled his foot and tried to pull himself upright, Buckbeak bust into a full gallop. Harry was thrown forward.

"Stop it, you goddamned horse!"

Buckbeak sailed over the small creek that marked the boundary between the upper and lower pastures. Harry knew even before it happened that this was the end.

As his fingers slipped out of Buckbeak's mane, his body was thrown forward and to the side. He felt himself sail out of the saddle, his body twisting as he fell off. His left arm and shoulder took most of the blow, but then his head collided with something large and sharp.

Unreal pain surged through him. Blackness followed. His last thought was that he hadn't even made it off the grounds.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

"Damn it, I knew it," Draco said, as he found Buckbeak's stall empty.

"There's tack missing," Blaise called from the side.

"He's left a note," Ron said, pulling a piece of folded paper away from the post. "It's to Mr. Hagrid, from Harry."

Draco darted forward and snatched the note from Ron's fingers, reading it quickly

"He's going to town. He must be taking the route through the upper pasture." Draco looked around. "All of the other horses are already gone."

"What should we do?" Blaise asked.

"Run. And hope to God we catch him before he does something monumentally stupid."

"Are you mad? It's almost ten miles to town! It will take us forever to catch him." Blaise said.

"Then I suggest you start running," Draco said as he sprinted out the door.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Something was licking him. Harry didn't like it. He tried to roll away, but the explosion of pain kept him where he was, panting and hoping the world would stop its violent spinning.

'_Cry baby. You've got to get up! You've got to get out of there! You can't let them find you like this. You can't!' _

Harry struggled to push himself up. He cried out as he moved his left shoulder, immediately flopping back onto the sodden ground. Hot tears trailed down his cheeks as he bit his lip to keep from screaming.

'_Get UP. You can't let them find you like this. They'll take you back there. You can't go back.'_

Harry moaned as he pushed himself forward, his right hand clawing at the ground and dragging him farther. He made it less than a foot before collapsing again. The pain was becoming even worse—so much so that darkness crept in.

"Fuck you," Harry rasped as he tried to heave himself forward. He managed to get a bit farther that time and pushed again and again, until his foot met with a broken section of the fence. The wood snapped and gave way. Harry lost all of the leverage he had and tumbled to his side. Unable to stop his movement, he fell through an open section and over the small embankment, coming to rest at the bottom, his left wrist burning with pain. His shoulder, his head—everything—was on fire. He didn't curse the darkness when it came a second time.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

"I think . . . I think . . . a horse. I see . . . a horse," Blaise panted, as he pointed in the distance.

Draco growled and put on an extra burst of speed, hoping to find that Harry had simply changed his mind and was sitting astride that damn horse.

He scrambled up the small hill, coming to an abrupt stop as Buckbeak reared back, startled. Draco's heart stopped beating when he realized Buckbeak was missing his rider.

"Stop that, you mangy beast! Where's Harry?!" Draco demanded, not caring that he was talking to an insane horse. He heard feet pounding behind him, coming closer. Buckbeak went wild.

"Whoa, whoa, boy," Ron said, coming to stand by Draco's side, panting hard from the run. "Get back, Draco."

"Fuck you, Weasley. I'm here to find Harry. I don't care about that godforsaken horse."

Ron waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, still trying to catch his breath. "Gotta . . . we've gotta get him calmed down first, or we won't be able to get near him. Can't find Harry if we can't get near him."

Draco made to charge forward, but Blaise came up behind him and grabbed him around the middle, pulling him backward.

"Let me go, you sonofabitch!"

"Shut it, Draco. Let Ron do what needs doing. You're not helping Harry like this."

Draco continued to struggle, but stopped as he watched Ron approach the still rearing horse.

"Not here to hurt you . . . calm down . . . need your help," Draco heard Ron say as he crouched low and appeared to bow before the thing.

Slowly, Buckbeak gentled, finally coming to rest. Quick as lightening, Ron darted forward and grabbed the reins, pulling them close, while still talking to Buckbeak in soft tones.

"I've got him. Find Harry," Ron said out of the side of his mouth, slowly leading Buckbeak away.

Draco didn't waste a second as he struggled from Blaise's hold and ran forward. He thanked God it was a full moon. Otherwise they wouldn't have been able to see a thing.

"Look there. Does that grass look all matted?" Blaise said, stopping in front of a broken section of fence.

"Yeah it does," Draco said slowly, his eyes following the line of matted grass, across the missing section of fence and down the small embankment. He gasped at what he saw at the bottom.

"No!" Draco shouted, scrambling down, desperate to get to Harry.

He skidded to a stop, almost tripping in the wet grass, and dropped to his knees. Harry lay unmoving.

"Harry? Harry, please wake up. You have to wake up, now," Draco said, as his hands moved over Harry's body, looking for blood and other obvious injuries.

"Fucking Christ," Blaise panted as he came to a stop next to Draco. "Is he—Is he okay?"

"He's unconscious, you bloody idiot. You figure it out," Draco snapped.

"Let's not do this right now. Let's figure out how to help Harry, okay?"

Draco nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Have you tried to wake him?"

"Yeah. He's . . . he's really hurt, I think."

"Let's roll him over and see if we can get a better idea of what's wrong."

They worked in tandem, trying to roll Harry onto his back. As Blaise grabbed Harry's right shoulder, though, Harry moaned and tried to get away.

"Fuck," Blaise said, snatching his hand back and then scrambling to keep Harry from hitting the ground.

"What's going on down there?" Ron called, peering over the side of the hill, his hands holding the reins tight.

Draco's mind raced. There was no way they could move Harry by themselves, and if any of the teachers found out that Harry had stolen a horse in an attempt to run away, he'd be expelled.

"Ron, get the horse back to the stable. You've got to get rid of any evidence that Harry took that horse anywhere. Do you understand me?"

"What? Are you crazy? He's hurt. We've got to—"

"I know that! But we've got to do this too."

"Draco, you're not thinking—"

"Just do it! Do you understand?"

"Yeah. Got it. I've still got the key. What should I do with it after?"

"Harry's supposed to have it. Just keep it for now. And get rid of that note!"

Ron patted his pocket. "I have it here."

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. When you've done that, get back to our room and do something with Harry's things. Just . . . I dunno, shove them somewhere or something. We don't want anyone to know he was running away."

"What about his knapsack?" Blaise asked, gesturing to the torn and tattered thing in the grass.

Draco swallowed. "Take it up to Ron."

"Right," Blaise said before scrambling to his feet.

"We'll give you a ten minute head start, Ron, but no more than that. He needs—He needs to be in hospital," Draco said.

"Got it. What's the story, then?"

Draco looked at Blaise, hoping he'd have some inspiration.

"Ron, after you're done, you go back to bed—pretend you've been asleep this whole time," Blaise said.

"Alright," Ron said.

"And we'll pretend that the three of us snuck out for a last hurrah at the stone circle at the edge of the upper pasture. Harry slipped in the wet grass, erm, hit his head on something and tumbled down the hill," Blaise continued.

"Are you mad? You'll get detention with Filch, or worse! That'll be the end of sneaking out to the cottage or to the stone circle. Everyone will hate us."

Blaise looked down at Draco and Harry's unmoving form. "I'd say it's worth it, wouldn't you?"

Ron sighed. "Of course it is. I just . . . damn it, Harry! Why'd you choose now to go barking mad?"

"Get that horse out of here," Draco snapped. "He's getting colder," he said, his voice breaking on the last word.

"Come on, boy," Ron said, taking off in a dead run, Buckbeak trotting beside him.

"Draco, feel around his head. Is there any injury?"

Harry moaned again, seemingly trying to get away from Draco's touch, before he fell silent once more. "Yeah. It's—fuck—it's all sticky! He's losing blood," Draco said, pulling off his jumper, wrapping it around Harry's head, and propping it in his lap. "We've got to get him out of here."

"We'll get him out. Is it . . . is blood going everywhere?"

"No. Feels like it's clotted."

"That's one good thing, at least. Oh, and the slip and fall story will work. There's a big rock up here."

Draco nodded, still running his hands up and down Harry's body, telling himself that he was being useful. _Wake up. Please, just wake up. Let me know you're going to be okay._

They fell into a desperate silence, each mentally counting down the clock.

"I'll get Snape—I mean, I assume you want me to get Snape," Blaise said.

Draco nodded. "Yeah. He'll—he'll need to get help."

"Course." Blaise pulled at the grass and checked his watch again. "Five minutes more."

Draco nodded again, surprised it had only been five minutes. It felt like centuries had passed.

"Do you have any idea why he would do this?" Blaise asked.

Draco ran his fingers through Harry's hair, wishing that he would just wake up. "We had a fight. He—he wanted to come out, or something, I—I don't know. He was really angry and . . . McLaggen made some comment about the gay footballer's civil union and Harry just . . . he just lost it."

"That fucking idiot. It should be McLaggen at the bottom of that hill, not Harry."

"I think he doesn't want to, um, be my—my—"

"Oh, shut up. And no way does Harry not want to be your boyfriend, or lover, or partner, or whatever you call yourselves. He's a hard nut to crack, I'll give you that, but once you do, I don't see Harry letting you go. That's part of the problem, I think. He loves as hard as he fights. No middle ground with him, eh?"

Draco didn't respond.

"That can't be all, though," Blaise said. "The two of you fight about that shit all of the time. Must have been something else."

Draco's head jerked up. "You think?"

"Um, yeah. Potter doesn't go insane just because you're too much of a little fairy to come out."

"Shut your fucking mouth."

Blaise chuckled. "There's the Draco I know." He stood, his demeanor once again serious. "I'm going to go get Professor Snape. We'll call for help and be back in a jiff."

"It's not been ten minutes."

"He can't wait any longer. Neither can you, I suspect."

Blaise didn't wait for a reply as he stood and took off in a run.

Draco pulled Harry closer, not caring as Harry whimpered—that meant he was alive. "Hang on just a little longer, Harry. Just a little bit longer."

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

It seemed like time had stretched impossibly as Draco waited. He talked to Harry, begged him to wake, told him about the things they would do before they had to return to school. He promised Harry the world, if only he would wake up and be okay.

And as impossibly stretched as time had been, it snapped back, becoming a dizzy whorl of people and questions and orders. Uncle Severus had shaken him hard and had asked desperate questions that Draco couldn't seem to answer.

All he knew was that Harry was on a stretcher, things strapped all around him to keep him immobile, looking pale as winter and just as leaden.

There was talk of concussions and dislocated shoulders and severely sprained ankles. There were heated whispers about the length of time he'd been unconscious. Uncle Severus had barked orders at the medics and called people on his cell phone.

In shock, Draco curled in on himself, watching through someone else's eyes as Harry was taken away.


	29. I Should Have, I Could Have, I Would Hav

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Special thanks this time around to joanwilder for assistance with the technical aspects of this chapter. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. I am in awe of your thoughtfulness and your sharing.

**CHAPTER 29: I Should Have, I Could Have, I Would Have**

Harry floated in darkness.

Awareness flickered. He struggled against it, but awareness made him feel nice things, like the warm fingers tangled with his own, the sure sweep of a thumb across the inside of his wrist, and the brush of something soft against his brow. He could even hear a melodic voice murmuring near his ear and smelled a familiar perfume. He relaxed and allowed awareness to creep closer. But as he woke, pain made him gasp and choke.

He retreated.

DDDDDDDDDDDDD

Draco stared at the soggy toast in front of him.

"You must eat."

He looked up at his godfather and then back to the toast. He pushed the plate away, ignoring Severus's exasperated sigh.

"This moping helps no one."

"I want to see him."

"You can't yet."

"Why not? Why can't I? Mum's in there with him right now. You were with him earlier. Why can you be with him, but I can't?"

"He's still unconscious, that's why."

"So? I could talk to him. Hearing familiar voices helps people wake up. I demand to see him!"

Draco ignored the stares from the other families in the waiting room. The old lady in the corner clucked her tongue and muttered something under her breath before returning to her knitting. He didn't care what they thought. It had been hours and no one had let him see Harry. No one. He was entitled to be angry and loud. And scared.

"Draco, I don't want you to see him yet. That's why. He's—I've had enough hysterics for one day and am not equipped to deal with you if you don't like what you see." Severus's clothes were rumpled and his hair stringy. He looked exhausted and wrung out. Draco knew that feeling.

"What's that supposed to mean? You just said he had a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, a—"

"Calm yourself!" Severus demanded in a furious whisper. "This is precisely why you're not going in there. Not yet. You'll—you'll act like a melodramatic teenager! Screaming, crying, disrupting everything."

"Gee. Didn't know I'd turned into a sixteen-year-old girl. Thanks for that."

"Do not test me," Severus said, massaging his forehead in angry circles.

The frenetic scurrying of the doctors and nurses and hurried conferences with Severus had long since passed. The pain of waiting bore down on them, allowing bone-deep lethargy to set in.

"Sorry, I just—Why isn't he awake yet? It's been hours and hours." Draco bit his lip. "Is it a bad sign? That he's not awake? Is that why you won't let me see him?"

"We've already gone over this."

"I know, I just—I feel like I can't remember everything. It's so confused and I can't remember if you told me that he was—" Draco stopped when Severus's hand covered his and squeezed for a moment before retreating.

"I know you're worried. We're all worried," Severus said.

Draco nodded.

Severus's eyes cut to the side. "What were all of you doing up there, anyway? It must have been four o'clock in the morning."

The solicitous tone of Severus's voice caused Draco to put his head down, quickly trying to gather his fuzzy thoughts.

"Just like I said. Just like I've told you every time you've asked me."

"Indulge me."

Draco sighed. "It's the last weekend of school. We thought we'd go up to the stone circle in the upper pasture and, you know, have a last hurrah. The grass was wet and Harry slipped, landed on his right side and hit his head on a rock. He fell down the hill. I sent Blaise to find you while I stayed with Harry."

"We, who?"

Draco wanted to scream. "I told you already!" he snapped. "Me, Harry, Blaise and Wea—_we_ just wanted to celebrate."

"Why wasn't Mr. Weasley with you?"

Draco kicked the leg of the table, hoping abusing the furniture would keep him from spewing obscenities or grabbing the knitting needles out of the old lady's hands and stabbing his godfather with them.

"Draco?"

He kicked the table especially hard and shrugged.

Severus didn't say anything else for a long while, long enough that Draco thought he might have gotten away with the lie.

"Did you know that you have to fall quite hard, or from a distance, in order to dislocate your shoulder?"

Draco had been ready for this one. "He fell hard and landed on it the wrong way. Happens all of the time."

"Yes, yes. Of course. Which side did he fall on again?"

"Chri—the right, Uncle Severus."

"The right, you say?"

Draco pursed his lips and nodded.

"Isn't it extraordinary, then, that it's his left shoulder and his left wrist the doctors had to tend to."

Draco's mouth fell open. Tears of frustration prickled at the corners of his eyes. "So I got the side wrong. I just told you everything feels confused. And it's not like I've been able to see him since we arrived. It was a slip of the tongue. Happens to the best of us." Draco sneered, no longer caring whether his godfather was as scared as he was.

"I know you're lying to me and I won't tolerate it."

Draco snorted. "What if I am? Why would you care? Filch run out of summer help?"

"Because whatever happened up there has a bearing on what's going on now. What you know could help Harry."

Draco straightened at that, dread pooling in his stomach. "I thought you said he was going to be okay."

"He—this is serious! I'm not in the mood to play these infantile games. I need to know what really happened."

"Why do you think—"

"Mr. Hagrid came back early. He called because he couldn't find Harry. It seems the tack room was a complete mess. Were you taking Harry out on a ride? Against my express wishes? Were you or were you not encouraging him to ride that damn beast of a horse?"

"I did no such thing! Harry—" Draco shut his mouth and went back to kicking the table.

"Harry, what? Draco, please, this is important. I . . . apologize if I seemed angry with you. This could make the difference. If the doctors knew what had really happened . . ."

Draco groaned. "You can't expel him. Promise me."

Severus rubbed his hand over his face. "I have no intention of doing such a thing," he murmured. "But I need to know what happened. What _really_ happened. Please."

Draco swallowed and closed his eyes. After all of that planning, it had fallen apart because Draco couldn't keep his story straight. And what if Uncle Severus was right? What if what Draco knew could help Harry? God! Had waiting that five or ten minutes made the difference? Had it? Guilt crept into his gut and made him squirm.

"I didn't take Harry out on a ride. He—he did that himself."

"Go on."

"We—we were out. Blaise, Weasley and I. We got in, erm, really late. Harry and I had a row earlier that night and he left from . . . um . . . from where we were."

"I know all about the cottage. I'm not nearly as thick as you students seem to think. Get on with it."

"Er, right. Anyway, we got in and saw that all of his things were piled on his bed. There was a note."

Severus leaned forward, fear in his eyes. "What kind of note?"

Draco shook his head. "Not like that. It was—it said he was leaving Wolsford. Withdrawing. We figured he was running away."

Severus sat back in his chair and blinked for a few moments. "What happened then?"

"I had an idea where he'd gone."

"So you went to the stables."

"Yeah. We started there. Saw that Buckbeak was gone and figured he was trying to make it to town."

"Did you see him fall?"

"No. But Buckbeak was near where Harry fell and you saw the rock. I figure Buckbeak jumped the creek and Harry wasn't ready for it."

"Why didn't you tell me this before? Why not the medics?"

"What does it matter how he fell? And why would I tell you that my—that Harry had stolen a horse and was running away? He'd have been expelled."

"And yes, dead or a long-term coma are such better options."

Draco stood and shoved his chair away. "I hate you! Why would you say that? Why? You think I want him dead? Is that it? How dare you say something so . . . so _awful_ to me. You don't know what it's like, sitting here, wondering what you could have done to keep this from happening, so just shut your bloody mouth!"

"Quiet!" the little old lady in the corner snapped, startling both Draco and Severus. "You've already run out the rest of the poor sods with your bickering. Leave an old woman to peace. You," she said pointing at Draco, "tell your father you're sorry. Lads shouldn't speak that way."

"He's not—"

The old lady made short jabbing motions with her knitting needles, the completed knitting flapping in the wake. "Now, lad."

Draco sighed. "Er, sorry." He shot a glance at the old lady. "I shouldn't have been disrespectful. But you—"

"That's enough out of you," the old lady said, cutting Draco off. Severus's face was entirely too smug. Draco wanted to claw it off.

"Yes, _Son_, you should always respect your elders," he said.

"You're not off the hook, young man," the old lady said, pointing at Severus. "That boy of yours looks wrung out. Poor little lamb. And you—you're just snapping at him like a wolf, ready to pick his measly little bones. You apologize to that boy."

"Yes, _Father_, do apologize."

"I—I apologize." Severus said nothing more.

"I suppose it will do. Now keep your voices down," the old woman said.

Draco and Severus said nothing for a long while. The clack-clack-clack of the old woman's knitting needles was the only sound in the room. Surprisingly, it was Severus who spoke up first.

"I knew that horse was trouble," he said softly. "I told Rubeus not to let Harry spend so much time with him. Of course he thought he could ride him. I should have seen this coming. I should have taken greater precautions. That dangerous animal should never have been allowed to board at Wolsford. I should have had him moved, or put down. I should have done something. Talked to him."

Draco looked up, shocked. He'd never seen his godfather so defeated. So scared. He realized how much Harry meant to him, how he probably thought of Harry as a son. Draco reached out and squeezed his hand, grateful that someone else loved Harry as much as he did, and felt as helpless and powerless as he did.

"He's going to be okay. He has to be," Draco said.

"He'd better, or I'll finish the job for him."

Draco snorted. "I'll be there to help, I think."

Severus made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and fished around for the morning paper. He gave a section to Draco and they read in silence. There was an article on how the South American rain forests were slowly disappearing due to environmental changes, and suddenly Draco wondered how Harry's injuries would affect his summer.

"Will this change when you leave for Chile?"

"I—what?" Severus asked, looking up from the Business section with a perplexed look on his face. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Well, I assumed you weren't going to let Harry travel on his own if he's still bandaged up."

"Your mother can ensure he arrives safely."

"Mum's going to Chile?"

"What? No—she's n—" Severus paused. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, isn't that where you're going to be? For that summer project? Have I got it wrong?"

"No, I'll be in Chile, along with—" Severus paused again. "Did Harry tell you he was going to Chile?"

"Yeah. He mentioned it a long time ago, though. He's really excited about it—or he was. But I think part of it was that he . . . well, you know. He didn't want to go back to the Dursleys. He hasn't said anything since before the spring holiday, though. Why?"

The confusion cleared from Severus's face. His shoulders drooped and he swore under his breath.

"Uncle Severus?"

"Harry's not going to Chile."

"He's not? But—are you not taking any assistants, then?"

"Harry was not selected. He found out last week. I assumed he'd mentioned this to you."

Draco felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. "No, he didn't say anything. I just—what's going to happen to him now? He can't—he's not going back to the—"

"No. He's not going back there. I'd arranged for him to work with one of my colleagues for most of the summer."

"Oh. He—he didn't mention that, either."

"He didn't know about it. He didn't let me tell him. He was so angry after class that day and I refused to talk with him while he was like that. I should have talked to him. I shouldn't have let him affect me so."

"Sounds like he's been angry with the lot of us."

"Harry is—Draco, are you sure that you want to pursue something with him? He's not casual about things like this. He won't—he doesn't—take rejection well, and if you're not sure about—"

"Stop right there. Don't say what I think you're about to say." Something welled up in Draco. It felt raw and burned him clean through. "I'm not sure about much, but I'm absolutely sure about Harry. I—I love him," Draco announced.

The little old lady in the corner sighed. Draco's head swung around. "Yeah, that's right. I'm in love with a boy—er, a man. I love him."

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Severus trying to shush him with slashing hand motions. "Stop this," he hissed, but Draco paid him no mind.

"He's my—my boyfriend, and how dare you look at me like there's anything wrong with that," Draco said to the little old lady, his voice the snappy aristocratic drawl his father had used when talking to people who were beneath them.

He'd said he loved Harry—he'd said he loved a man—and he'd meant every word. Draco's heart beat so wildly he thought it would fly from his chest.

"More of this again, eh? Shut that smart mouth of yours," the little old lady said. "It's none to do to with me who you love—boy or girl—I read _Hello!_ I know what goes on nowadays. Just keep your voice down. You're making me drop stitches with all your wild pronouncements and hysterics. And you," she said, waving her knitting at Severus. "Keep that son of yours under control. He's clearly had a shock—look how pale he is, and how skinny—but that's no excuse. Children today," she muttered under her breath before returning to her knitting.

Severus's lips quirked at the sides. "I can see why you two like each other. Dramatic outbursts, hot tempers. It's amazing you haven't killed each other."

"Don't tell me that I don't love him, because I do," he said in a raised voice, daring the old lady to object. "I do," he said to his godfather.

Now that he'd said it, he wanted everyone to know. He couldn't believe he hadn't wanted people to know. Harry was . . . he was everything. How could he have denied this for so long?

"Draco, I know you think that I can't possibly believe that you know love at sixteen, but I do. I know you love him. I've known it for a long while. But love—that first visceral feeling—is merely the first bloom."

Draco rolled his eyes. "God, I can't handle one of your plant analogies right now."

"Sustaining love is a far harder thing," Severus said, ignoring Draco. "Especially at your age. Any relationship would be difficult, but one with Harry will be extraordinarily so."

Draco snorted. "You think I don't know that? What, you think I sit around hospitals, staring at soggy toast for laughs? I know exactly what a relationship with Harry's like—I'm living it. Right now. And he's in that room, and he won't—he won't wake up and I don't know if he's going to be all right." His voice broke on the last word.

"He'll be okay."

Draco nodded, his head bobbing up and down a little too hard. "I just wish—I don't know what's happening. It's like it's not real. I can't even see him."

He heard Severus sigh but it was a gentle sound, one full of sorrow and understanding.

"Please, just tell me again. Tell me what's wrong with him. Tell me he's going to be okay."

Severus pursed his lips for several moments before beginning the litany once again. "While his head injury was substantial and he required a great number of stitches, there does not appear to be lasting damage. The doctors aren't worried about the unconsciousness yet. It was actually helpful, because it meant the shoulder dislocation could be reduced without the necessity of sedation. Barbaric procedure, really. His test results were normal. His wrist and ankle have been wrapped and iced and his shoulder immobilized. His abrasions and bruises have been tended to, and his . . ."

And Severus continued on, detailing the treatments and tests that Harry had gone through as he'd done four times already. Draco closed his eyes and let the words wash over him.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDD

Harry was annoyed. He was perfectly content to stay where he was, but his body seemed to have other ideas.

Sounds sharpened as if someone were pulling cotton from his ears. The smell of antiseptic and that familiar perfume assaulted him. But it was the pain that made him try to twist away and tumble back into darkness again. He groaned.

"He's waking again," someone said. The voice sounded so loud. Harry tried to tell whoever it was to shut the bloody hell up. His lips wouldn't move the way he wanted, though, and all he managed was a loud grunt and a cat-like yowl.

"I told you he was in pain. I demand you give him pain medication!" the voice said, as warm fingers clutched at his hand and soft hair tickled his nose.

"It's all right, Harry. You're going to be okay. Just hang on a bit longer, I'll take care of everything," the voice said.

It sounded like the voice of his mother—at least how he imagined she would sound. How many nights had he dreamt of his mother soothing him through a fever or a scraped knee? He tried to call out, tried to ask her if she was his mum, but couldn't. Agitated, he shifted, trying to get closer to the voice, to the soft hair and warm fingers.

"Can't you see he's in pain? Are you all sadists?" the voice yelled, hurting Harry's ears.

"We can't give him any pain medication until he's awake and alert. He's been unconscious since he arrived and has a concussion."

This was a new voice. One that sounded tired and as if she'd given this same speech over and over again.

"That is not acceptable. I want to speak to Dr. Marshall right now."

Harry tried to tell them to stop yelling. Surely they knew they were yelling. He just wanted to go back to sleep. But now it felt like someone was shaking the life out of him and poking his shoulder with a pointy stick.

"Mr. Potter? Mr. Potter? Can you hear me?"

Harry tried to push the hand away, but found he couldn't move his left arm. And what little movement he accomplished caused incredible pain. He yelped and tried to get away.

"You're safe, Mr. Potter. Come on, now. Open your eyes for me," the second voice said.

_No! I don't want to!_ he told himself, but his eyes fluttered open as if commanded.

"Ah, there you are, dearie. That's it. Keep them open for me."

Harry wanted to slug her. "Go 'way," he slurred, letting his eyes fall closed again and trying to ignore the pain.

"Harry, it's time to wake up. Come on now, wake up for us."

There was that soft voice again, and the smell of familiar perfume. "Mum?" he asked in a raspy voice. He heard a slight gasp and felt a hand brush through his hair.

"Oh, my sweetheart. I wish I were. I wish I were," the voice said.

"Hurts."

"I told you he needs pain medication. I insist you give it to him now. Or do I have to call my dear friend, Dr. Willshire, the chief physician for this hospital? This is ridiculous. I'm going to get Mr. Snape, he'll see that this is rectified immediately."

"We'll give it to him as soon as the doctor comes in and assesses him. I understand that this is a trying time for you and your family, but we have procedures to follow, and they're in place to keep your son alive."

Harry was confused. _Was_ this his mum? Now that he thought about it, she sounded like Mrs. Malfoy.

"He's not—" There was a long pause and a squeeze to his hand. "Yes, of course. Can you send for Mr. Snape? I don't want to leave Harry."

Harry closed his eyes and tried to snuggle closer, but the pain kept him from getting too far.

"Stay with us, Harry," the second voice barked. Why was she being so mean?

"Tired," he groused. "Go 'way."

"Harry? Open your eyes and look at me. Look at me, Harry."

Why did they keep calling his name? Did they think he didn't know his name?

"Harry?"

"What?" he snapped, eyes still closed and his tongue thick.

"Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Harry."

He opened his eyes again. He saw three blurry people. A woman in polka dots, Mrs. Malfoy, and a man in a white coat.

"Welcome back, Harry," the man said.

"Stop saying my name," he slurred.

The man chuckled. "Glad to see you haven't lost your spirit."

Harry tried to turn over. Maybe if he turned over they would all disappear and he could go back to sleep. He could go back to the nice dream where his mum kissed his cheeks and held his hand.

He'd barely shifted when pain exploded on his left side. He groaned. Hands turned him onto his back and held him in place. Mrs. Malfoy murmured in his ear, but he couldn't make out what she was saying.

The pain, however awful, managed to sharpen his mind. Dreams dissolved.

He looked around. Polka dots, white coat, Mrs. Malfoy. He paused. Mrs. Malfoy? Why was she—Damn it! He was in hospital. He hadn't escaped. Was there anything he could do right? Harry closed his eyes, wishing it all away.

"Stay with us, Harry. Just answer a few questions and then we can give you something to help with the pain, okay?"

Harry eyes snapped open. He nodded. He could answer a few questions if it meant the end of the pain.

"What's your name?"

"Ha—Harry Potter."

"Good, and what year were you born?"

"1980."

"Very good, Harry." The doctor held up two balls, one red and one blue. "With your right hand, point to the blue ball."

With some difficulty, he raised his right arm and pointed a shaky finger at the blue ball.

"Excellent," the doctor said before he scribbled something on his pad. He came close to the bed and took out a small pen light. "I need to check your pupils. Look up for me?"

Harry did, trying not to squirm when the light shone in his eyes. "Brilliant. Tell me where it hurts."

Harry resisted the urge to tell him to fuck himself, but just barely. "All over," he said, not caring that he sounded tetchy and whiny. The doctor looked like he was waiting for more, though. "My head, shoulder . . . um, my wrist and my ankle. And it hurts to breathe."

"You had quite a nasty fall. You've been unconscious for about five hours now."

Buckbeak. The fall. Someone holding him and telling him to hang on. It all came rushing back.

"What's wrong with me? Why's my arm all bandaged up?"

"You have a concussion and you dislocated your shoulder. Your wrist has a mild sprain, as does your ankle. You bruised a few ribs and have a few other minor injuries. I daresay, you're going to be sore for quite a while."

"Brilliant."

The doctor chuckled. He looked like he might reach out and do something completely mental, like ruffle Harry's hair. "We're going to keep you overnight for observation and, depending on how things go, you may go home tomorrow."

Dread settled in. Harry closed his eyes, tears leaking at the corners.

"That's right, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy said a bit too brightly. "You'll be coming home. With me and Draco."

Harry's eyes shot open. He looked at her in silent question. She nodded. "It's all sorted. I'll explain later."

Before Harry could ask any questions, the doctor and nurse moved over to his bed. He noticed for the first time that he had an IV line in his right hand.

The doctor handed two large syringes to the nurse. "See how he does with one. If that's not quite enough, go ahead and give him the other."

"Of course, sir," the nurse said, even as she uncapped the syringe and injected it into Harry's IV line.

A feeling of warmth washed over him. The throbbing pain began to recede. He sighed.

"That's it, Harry. Here's the good stuff to make you feel better. It's going to make you sleepy, but that's okay."

"Oh, so now it's okay," he slurred, even as his eyes fluttered closed. He felt like he was being pressed into the mattress, the weight of his limbs and the warmth of the blankets soothing. It reminded him of nights spent behind closed curtains and afternoons sprawled across warm grass.

"Draco?" he called out.

"Shh, you'll see him when you wake up. I promise."

The nurse laughed. "He's a real corker. Keeps you on your toes, I suspect."

Harry felt Mrs. Malfoy's fingers carding through his hair. It was the loveliest feeling in the world.

"You have no idea," she said.

Harry drifted off to sleep.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

He looked so small bundled in white sheets and blankets in the large hospital bed. The bruises and scratches stood out against the too-pale skin. She planned to get some color in those cheeks. Perhaps they could spend afternoons in the garden? If Harry was feeling up to it, he could garden with her. They'd take lunch in the gazebo and Draco would join them. She'd drink her tea and watch as her boys teased and needled each other with affection so obvious that it would make her smile for no reason at all. She'd keep him from doing too much—afternoon naps every day, nights reading or watching the telly—and stuff him full of his favorite foods. Why were teenage boys so ridiculously thin?

Narcissa started. When had she come to love this boy?

She rearranged his blankets, taking care to avoid his right ankle and left side, both heavily bandaged. She went back to holding his hand and wishing she could go back in time and save him, wishing she could go back to that night so many years ago and change everything.

The door snicked open behind her and closed with a soft puff of sound.

"How is he?"

"He woke. The doctor came round and then they gave him some pain medication. He's sleeping now."

She heard the sharp intake of breath but she wasn't going to let Severus make her feel guilty for having kept that moment for herself. He'd had so many moments with Harry already. This one was hers. She steeled herself, waiting for his response.

She felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder. His fingers twirled in her hair for a moment before he let go. It was such a small show of affection, but one that Narcissa savored.

"What did the doctor say?" Severus asked.

"They're keeping him overnight for observation, but he'll likely be released tomorrow."

"Good. Draco is most insistent that he see Harry."

"I'm surprised he hasn't broken down the door."

"No, but he did declare his love for Harry to the family waiting room."

"He didn't!"

"Oh, but he did. I've never seen anything so flamboyant and full of teenage angst in all my life. Why must they make everything so black and white? Why must everything be a declaration? A line in the sand? A challenge of some sort?"

"They're teenagers, Severus, on the cusp of adulthood. You were that way once, you know."

"I most certainly was not. I never did anything as witless as declaring that I was a homosexual to the little old lady in the corner doing her knitting."

"No, but you did defend my honor when Lucius was in one of his moods."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember? We were at a summer party between sixth and seventh year and Lucius made an inappropriate remark about my dress. You were so incensed. It was the only time I ever saw color in your face. Something happened and Lucius said something else. The next thing I remember is you running from the room, only to reappear a few moments later with a woolen mitten. You slapped him across the face with it, as I recall, and challenged him to a duel. Someone found two brooms and the two of you set out knocking each other around."

"It was supposed to be a glove! But, of course, the Smythwicks didn't have leather gloves by the door. Who keeps woolen mittens in the hall wardrobe in the summer?"

Narcissa couldn't help the giggles and laughter that poured out of her. It was like releasing tension from a valve. "You know what I remember most about that party?" she whispered.

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Everyone thought you and Lucius were just having us on, knocking each other about with broomsticks. Can you imagine? Even Lucius thought it was one big laugh."

"Yes, well Lucius thought everything was a big laugh. That was his biggest problem. He never took anyone seriously. He thought everyone was beneath him."

"You took it seriously, though. You weren't having a laugh. You were defending me. You became very dear to me in that moment and when Draco was born, I knew no other man could be his godfather. You've taken such good care of him. Thank you."

Severus shook his head. "He was easy to look after, and he had you. I couldn't really do any harm to him. But Harry? He had no one and I failed him."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"He—I can't talk to him. I've tried, in my own way. But nothing worked. I knew something was wrong. I knew that he was—but nothing worked. He wouldn't open up to me. And then he was unaccountably rude and I refused to talk to him. I sent him away. I dismissed him. Like those wretched people."

"What on Earth? Severus, you can't keep Harry and his friends from being teenage boys. It was an unfortunate accident. Yes, they shouldn't have been out on the grounds that late, but we shouldn't have done half the things we did as children."

"He wasn't—he was running away, Cissa! He took that damn demon horse and tried to run away."

Narcissa couldn't believe it. "You're sure?"

"Draco found the note. He and Harry's friends concocted the story that they'd gone out and Harry slipped."

"But his injuries—"

"He fell from the horse. That wild beast should never have been allowed on school grounds."

"We'll have the horse removed straight away. And—and—" Narcissa deflated. "This is a mess."

"Quite."

"He's still coming home with me. He's not going back to those awful people, even if he can't participate in that program you've arranged."

"I know that. And he should still be able to do it."

"Why would he do this? I don't understand."

"Why wouldn't he? What adult has ever protected him? Who has he ever been able to trust?"

The words stung. Narcissa looked away. "Thanks for that."

"Cissa, that was not an insult to you. If anything, it was an insult to the both of us, to the world. No one helped him."

"That's not true! We gave him a new life! Wolsford is a way out for him, a chance at a normal life with friends and a future and hope."

"I'm not so sure of that."

"What are you saying? That he's not going to return to Wolsford? You told me his marks were excellent, that he'd made friends. You're just going to tear all of that away from him? Send him to a local comprehensive?"

"Stop it!" Severus whispered furiously. "That is not what I'm saying. We thrust him into a world for which he was vastly unprepared and expected him to thrive. Instead he coped—just as he's always done—and used all of the same tricks as he did before. And we didn't notice. What I'm saying is that he needs to learn new ways to address these issues of his."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I don't know, Cissa. If I knew that, we wouldn't be here in the first place."

For a long while, the only sounds were the whirring and beeping of the machines in Harry's room.

"Do you remember Trudy Tremaine's daughter—the awkward one who witnessed that ghastly attack last year?"

"What about her?"

Narcissa shrugged. "She's in counseling now. Some kind of survivor's guilt therapy. Mimy says it's helping. Maybe Harry would do well with that. Counseling, I mean."

"I'd thought of that."

"I could arrange an appointment, if you'd like."

"I think that would be wise. I'm—I haven't been good enough for him. He needs more."

Narcissa uncharacteristically rolled her eyes. "You're quite dramatic, you know. And you wonder where Draco gets it? He gets it from you. And me, I suppose. Harry needs more, yes, but not because you failed him somehow. He needs more because those awful people abused him his whole life. Gods, if only I'd—"

"We can't change the past. If we could, we'd both have done things differently."

Narcissa nodded, knowing they were taking about more than Harry. "What now?"

"We wait. We fix it. We move forward."


	30. A Proper Family

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading. Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me. I am in awe of your thoughtfulness and your sharing. This is the penultimate chapter in Draco's Boy and, in many ways, our goodbye to Severus and Narcissa.

**CHAPTER 30: We Are Family**

Harry finally understood what it meant to wait for the other shoe to drop. He'd thought he'd understood it growing up with Uncle Vernon, watching the anger build, wondering when the tension would snap. It hadn't mattered so much because Vernon was a disgusting waste of flesh. He had cared for Vernon once, perhaps, when he still thought he deserved love, before he understood the way the world worked.

He looked at the clock on the far wall. Only seven in the morning. Damn.

He'd yet to see Professor Snape or Draco. He squirmed at the thought of how angry Professor Snape would be. And what about Draco? He was probably so disgusted with Harry that he wouldn't come at all.

"You might just be released today, Harry," the cheery nurse said, startling Harry from his thoughts.

"Erm, sorry?"

The nurse clucked her tongue while she wrote something down on his chart. "Poor lamb, bet you're tired. I know it's no fun to be poked and prodded all night. And I'm sure that shoulder smarts. My goodness me! It's been nearly eight hours since you last had any pain medication."

Harry nodded numbly, only just feeling the ever-present pain in his shoulder and his head. He'd refused it last time. He felt—and he didn't understand it, mind—guilty without the pain. He'd done something wrong. He shouldn't be rewarded for it.

"We'll give you some now, all right?" The nurse didn't give Harry the option of refusing. "Now I know you young lads. Don't fight it if it makes you drowsy. I daresay you could do with a bit of a kip."

Harry nodded again, grateful for anything that kept him from thinking about Professor Snape and Draco.

"There we are," she said, even as Harry felt soft warmth wash over him, dulling the pain. "Your—well, I'm not sure what she is, your aunt perhaps?"

Cold fear gripped Harry, stealing his breath. '_Aunt Petunia?_' he thought.

"She has the most gorgeous blonde hair. Bet it's natural, too. Is it?"

"What?" Harry croaked, his heart still racing.

The nurse clucked her tongue again. "Poor lamb. You really are tired, aren't you? Your aunt's hair? Narcissa, I think? Is it natural?"

Harry stared at the nurse, not sure what she wanted or why he cared if Mrs. Malfoy's hair was naturally blonde. Perhaps because it was so pale, it seemed to refract light rather than merely reflect it. In the end, he nodded.

Satisfied, the nurse gave him a toothy grin. She plumped his pillows, smoothed his blanket adjusted his foot, his arm—in short, she did everything she could to make him comfortable.

As Harry drifted to sleep, he wondered why on Earth she'd do such a thing. Didn't she know he tried to run away from school? That it was his fault he was in hospital? That he'd made a fucking mess of his life?

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

It was half eleven. Still hours before Professor Snape might arrive, given that it was the final day of term. What would he say? More importantly, what would he do? And what about Draco? Surely he should have seen Draco by now. Why hadn't he visited over the weekend? Why hadn't he sat with Harry? Harry hadn't been asleep all day. Alarm raced up and down his spine. Was Draco avoiding him? Well, why not? Wouldn't he do the same? Bloody hell, he'd completely screwed everything up.

"Harry? Are you quite all right? Are you in pain? That's it, I'm calling the doctor."

"Wait!" Harry called, finally wrenching himself of his stupor.

Mrs. Malfoy turned, a nauseatingly expectant smile on her face.

"I'm fine. I mean, I . . . I don't need anything."

"Oh," Mrs. Malfoy said, looking a bit lost. "All right, then, would you like a book? Some of your friends from school brought a few things for you from—from school."

"Erm . . . I—Are they here? Is Draco here?"

"No, I'm sorry. They had to get back for the last day of term. Draco should be by later."

"Oh."

"A book, then?"

"What?"

"Would you like a book? I can sort through them and find one for you. Get you some juice, perhaps? The nurse said she saved some of your favorite."

"I . . . You don't have to stay, or anything."

"Do you not want me too? I'm sure I can . . . Well, Draco and Severus will be along soon, I just thought—"

"No, I mean—what I meant was you shouldn't feel like you have to stay. I mean, you don't have to. Stay, I mean. Unless you want to."

"Harry—"

"I'm okay. Really. Don't, erm, don't feel obligated or something."

Mrs. Malfoy marched back to his bedside —there was no other way to describe her curious determination—sat in the chair, took his free hand carefully, and stared him in the eyes. _Brilliant_. Fine, then. Time to get this sorted.

"Look, Mrs. Malfoy. I understand."

Mrs. Malfoy blinked, looking perplexed. "What are you—?"

"I know you don't like me."

"What? Harry, you've got—"

"I know you don't think I'm good enough for him. Especially after what I've done."

"Now stop this right—"

"I mean, that's why I couldn't come with you on holiday, right?"

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes softened. She looked like she might cry. God. Harry hoped she wouldn't cry.

"Oh, Harry. Are all teenaged boys as daft as you?"

"What?"

"Scratch that. They are. I think it's a mandatory trait for all young men. Young men—well, older ones, too, for that matter—are terribly daft."

"What the bloody fuc—"

"Language." Mrs. Malfoy gave him that hard stare of hers, the one that used to make him quail when she'd found he and Draco getting into mischief. "Now. We're going to sort this right now. I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen, understood?"

Harry nodded.

"I care for you very, very much. I'm thrilled that you and Draco have found each other. As for the spring holiday, I understood that you were required to stay at school for a disciplinary infraction." There was that hard stare again. "I doubted seriously that you'd spoken of it to Draco and, in an effort to save you some embarrassment, Severus and I thought it wise that Draco and I go on a family trip together. Is that clear?"

Harry nodded again, hardly believing what he was hearing.

Mrs. Malfoy reached out and smoothed back his hair. "You are a wonderful young man, one that I have come to think of as part of my family. And because of that, I'm even sorrier about how I wronged you all those years ago. I'm so very sorry."

Harry looked away, sure that his face was flaming red. God, couldn't they just do this without the tearful confessions? "It's okay. It wasn't a big deal or anything."

"But it was. I wonder if you'd be here, in hospital, if I'd done the right thing then."

"Stop it. Just—I don't want to talk about this. It's done."

Harry looked away and stared out of the window. He heard Mrs. Malfoy sigh. A chair scraped across the floor.

"Well," Mrs. Malfoy began. "I'll just get your prescriptions filled. The doctor said you'd probably be released this evening."

Harry heard the door open and regret rushed through him.

"Mrs. Malfoy, wait!"

Mrs. Malfoy turned back, her expression questioning.

"I—I—"

"Shh. Get some sleep. It's a long trip home and I'd like you to be as rested as possible."

Harry nodded.

"It's going to be fine."

She smiled and left, closing the door softly behind her.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Harry looked at the clock. It was half four. The last botany class had ended almost an hour ago. Professor Snape could have left the school as early as half an hour ago. No doubt, Draco was with him. His last class ended earlier in the day, so that wouldn't slow Snape down. Harry estimated that it would take them nearly twenty minutes to drive into town. Parking in the middle of the day might be tricky, but once done it would probably only take them a few minutes to get inside the hospital, inquire as to his floor, and arrive. Professor Snape could burst through the door at any moment . . . any moment, now. Harry prepared himself.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, and as if fate had divined the cue, the door to Harry's room opened. At the precise click of polished dress shoes across the floor, Harry steeled himself to do battle.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said with a nod.

"Professor Snape."

The opening bows had been exchanged. Now it was a simple matter of taking their places. Vernon had rarely observed the niceties of a gentleman's duel, so Harry was ready for any sly tricks Snape might use.

Snape looked at him for a long time—as if sizing up his weaknesses—before whirling around and staring out of the window.

"Your final project was very good. Not quite full marks, but still commendable," he said in a soft murmur.

Not the opening sally Harry had expected. "Erm, thanks," he said cautiously, his eyes shooting towards the door and eyeing the IV line still in his arm.

"Draco was kind enough to turn in your journal. Mr. Longbottom tended to your experiment once he'd heard you were in hospital."

Harry's face flushed with shame. So Snape was going the humiliation route, was he? Harry was ready for that. "Thanks for letting me know. I'll have to send a note," he said, pleased at his venomous sarcastic.

Snape wouldn't like that a bit. Harry waited, ready for that damn shoe to stop dangling over his head. But he got little more than a tightened jaw from Snape.

"Thank you notes would be appropriate, given the circumstances. Do you have Mr. Longbottom's address?" Snape asked.

"No."

"I'll make sure you get it."

Harry said nothing in return.

Snape pursed his lips into a thin line. "Have you been well cared for? Are you in any pain?"

"Why Professor, I didn't know you cared."

"Answer the question, Potter."

"No."

"What? Are you refusing to answer my que—"

"I gave you my answer. No."

Snape inhaled sharply and his fists tightened.

"Am I to understand that you have not been well cared for, but you are also not in any pain?"

Harry smirked. "No."

Snape whirled around and stalked forward. Harry pressed himself into the mattress, refusing to let his bland expression change in the slightest.

"I know what you're doing. These games won't work. Not anymore."

"What games, Professor? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Potter," Snape growled in warning.

Harry donned his 'irritatingly-innocent' face. Vernon loved that one. "Sorry, sir. I'm just trying to answer your questions. Have I got them wrong?"

"Spare me. You know precisely what you're doing."

Snape looked at him speculatively for a moment before he advanced.

"Tell me, Potter, does it not matter to you that you nearly died?"

"Please. I didn't—"

"You should have seen Draco. Incoherent with grief. He was certain that you were dead."

"Draco? But—I haven't seen—He hasn't been—"

"He found you. Sprawled at the bottom of a hill, unconscious, bleeding."

The words pierced Harry, cutting through his ragged defenses. His face contorted, snarling, "Oh, come on. So I fell. Got a little banged up. So what?"

"Got a little banged—has it escaped your notice where you are? Do you not know what these white walls, and machines and bandages mean? Perhaps the doctor's decision to release you is hasty. Clearly your brain is still addled."

"And you're a barmy old bugger who needs to get laid," Harry blurted, his anger sharp and desperate to jab at anything it could.

"You've got desperate, if that's what you think will wound me. I didn't think I'd be plumbing the depths of your cowardice so soon in the conversation."

"I am not a coward!"

"I disagree," Snape said, his face relaxed, his eyes alight with what looked like victory to Harry. "I think you're the biggest coward it has ever been my misfortune to meet."

"I am not!" Harry cried, knowing—not caring—that he'd let this get too far away from him, that he was striking out blindly and Snape was making precise parries.

"Things got tough, so you ran away. You put your friends in terrible danger, put yourself in even greater peril, and there you are, worse for wear in a hospital bed, playing immature games, flinging weak, juvenile curses at your teacher because you're afraid to admit that you're scared and that you need help. That is the epitome of a coward."

"You don't know a damn thing about me. You're the fucking coward. What a waste you are. Day in and out with nothing but plants, can't even see it when a woman wants you, or maybe you do but you're too much of a _coward_ to do a damn thing about it."

"If I hadn't known you were a hormonal teenager before, I know it now. You think everything revolves around sex—"

"—bet you wouldn't even know what to do with a woman, would you? I bet you don't know the first thing about—"

"Enough!" Professor Snape charged forward, his face twisted with murderous rage. This was it. This was what Harry had been waiting for. "Not another word!" Snape hissed, looming over Harry. "Another word, and I'll—"

"What are you going to do? Hit me?" Harry leaned forward and stuck his jaw out as Snape drew back, his eyebrows arched with surprise. "Go ahead. Hit me and be done with it."

Harry closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

"Harry—"

"I can take it. I'll show you that I'm not a fucking coward! What are you fucking waiting for? Hit me!" Harry screamed.

Professor Snape remained impassive. He didn't say a word as he took a step back and folded his arms. He looked at Harry as if he were a sad little puppy in need of a good meal and a warm blanket. Snape pitied him. He _pitied_ him.

And the other shoe dropped.

"Who's the coward now?" Harry taunted, desperate to regain his footing.

Professor Snape swooped forward and grasped Harry's right shoulder. Harry gasped in surprise.

"I will never hit you, nor will anyone else if I can help it. That is not the way things work—"

"But—"

"I will never hit you."

"Yes you will. You'll see. I'll—"

"Listen to me, you idiot boy!"

Harry expected Snape's fingers to dig into his shoulder, squeezing painfully. Instead they slid to the back of Harry's neck, gently cupping his head, almost cradling it.

"I could not be angrier with you than I am right now. You stole a horse! Do you not understand that you committed a crime? And far worse is that you tried to run away from school, nearly getting yourself killed in the process. I am so angry with you that I would love nothing more than to shake you until sense fell from the heavens and filtered into your brain—"

"See? I told you, you're just like hi—"

"Don't you dare compare me to that disgusting pile of flesh! I will never hit you. I will not starve you. I will not make you go without simply because you're human and an idiotic teenager. No one will ever do those things to you again, if I have anything to say about it."

"But—"

"No, Harry. _No_. _Never again_."

"But—"

"Never again."

"But I—I stole a horse, and ran away, and got—who's going to pay for all of this? How can you possibly—why would anyone—I'm just—I—I don't understand!"

"Harry—"

"I—I'm supposed to be punished. It's not a big deal, you know. It doesn't even hurt most of the time. Not much. And then it's over. And things are normal. But I don't . . . I don't understand what you want."

"Harry—"

"I'll do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want. Just—please don't send me back there. I know that's where I was headed. I just . . . please not there. I'll—"

"Harry, stop!"

Professor Snape sat down in the hard plastic chair next to Harry's bed. "I want you to listen to me. You are not going back to the Dursleys. I have—I have arranged things for you."

"But Chile—"

"Do not interrupt me again, is that clear?"

Harry nodded.

"You were not the best choice for Chile."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but the look in Professor Snape's eyes—the one that screamed, I dare you to—had him closing it in the next instant.

"Chile was not the right opportunity for you. I arranged for you to work with one of my colleagues who's doing some experimental work in his lab near London, which allows you to live with Draco and Narcissa, but receive the enrichment and make the contacts you'll need should you continue on in this course of study."

Stunned, Harry's mouth fell open and his eyebrows shot up.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you before, but it wasn't fully arranged until last week and your infuriating behavior in my class did not give me the opportunity to tell you."

"But—"

"That does not excuse the fact that I left you to sulk for days without telling you about this."

Harry sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted and headachy. He would never understand this world. "It's fine."

"No. It's not. I should have told you. However that does not excuse what you did, what you've done. You are out of control and there must be consequences for your actions. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded and looked away. Okay, so Snape wasn't going to hit him. But he would be expelled, and then where would he go?

"I'm to be expelled, then. Sent off to—to—where exactly are you sending me?"

Professor Snape looked tired. "You're not going to be expelled."

"What? How's that possible. I mean . . . how's that possible? I don't understand."

"I know you don't. That's part of the problem."

"What?"

Professor Snape sighed and stood up, again staring out of the window.

"You won't be expelled. Despite your disciplinary issues, your marks were respectable."

"Respectable?"

"Yes. Others might say they were quite good. Fantastic, if you were Narcissa."

Harry snorted.

"You've done well at Wolsford, academically, and neither I nor the headmaster have any intention of involuntarily removing you. However, there are conditions to your return in September. First, once you're healed you will begin real riding lessons, three days a week."

"What? No thanks. If I never get on a horse again, it will be too soon."

"What gave you the impression that you had a right to discuss the terms of your return?"

"I—"

"Not. Another. Word."

Harry looked away, his face flushed with shame.

"You're going to get back on a horse and you're going to learn to properly handle yourself. Most importantly, you're going to learn to fall so that, hopefully, nothing like this ever happens again. Do you understand me?"

Harry nodded, surprised at the way Professor Snape's voice almost cracked at the end.

"Right. Next term you will be mucking out the stalls every night. No riding unless accompanied by me or Mr. Hagrid and only for an hour every other week."

"What about Buck—"

"Because of your actions, Buckbeak has been removed from the school."

"You can't kill—"

"Quiet! I didn't say anything about killing him. But he clearly doesn't belong at a school. Especially one that sees fit to give adolescent boys free reign over the stables. Which reminds me, you will be required to return your key and formally apologize to Mr. Hagrid. In person."

"But I wrote a let—"

"In. Person. Understood?"

Harry nodded.

Professor Snape seemed to struggle with what else to say. He kept opening his mouth and closing it, setting his jaw each time.

"Professor Snape?"

As if he hadn't heard Harry's prompt, Professor Snape continued. "And, finally, you will be attending weekly counseling sessions and, perhaps, additional group therapy sessions starting next week. They will continue until I deem them no longer necessary."

"I don't need counseling. I just need for the adults in my life to tell me what the fuck is going on every once in a while."

"You will not speak to me that way and yes, you will be attending counseling if you want to attend Wolsford next term."

"But—"

"No. You—I know you don't see it, that you don't understand, but what they did to you—the Dursleys—it . . . it stays with you, long after you think you've beaten it, beaten them. It never leaves you, Harry. And you're not growing, you're coping. I—we—we want you to be able to do more than cope."

"It's done. It's finished. I don't want to talk about it."

"It's not finished. Your stay here, what you said earlier, is proof of that. And, frankly, this isn't up for discussion. You will go. You will talk. You will listen. And you will make the most of it."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I wash my hands of you. I will not continue to help someone who refuses to help himself."

"What?" Harry cried.

"Make no mistake, Harry. I—I care very deeply for you, but I won't stand by and watch you disintegrate because of your pride."

"You're not my father. You don't get to make these decisions for me!"

Professor Snape closed his eyes and swallowed. "No. I'm not. But if you—if you were my son . . . I'd do the same."

A great wash of warmth flooded Harry, making him want to cry, shout with glee, and laugh all at once. He didn't understand it. But maybe . . . maybe it was time to start learning to understand. Maybe he wanted to understand why Mrs. Malfoy wanted to plump his pillows and why the nurses were so cheery to him and why Draco smiled at him that certain way that made his insides turn to goo. And why Professor Snape's eyes pleaded with him to do this.

Harry sighed. "Yeah. Okay. Fine."

Professor Snape nodded once, his eyes shimmering with something else Harry wanted to understand. "Good boy," he said in that soft rumbling voice he used when he was pleased.

There was a knock at the door.

"Oh, excuse me," the nurse said. "I was just coming to check on Harry and start getting him ready for discharge."

Professor Snape nodded. "I was just finishing." He turned to Harry and slid his hand behind his neck and squeezed softly. "You have the capacity to make any father proud, Harry. Any father."

And before Harry could say anything, Professor Snape slipped away and left.

The nurse chattered on about how long it was taking for the discharge papers to get signed and was he looking forward to his summer. Harry nodded where appropriate, said a few words he'd never remember, the whole time thinking about what Professor Snape had said.

**DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD**

Draco stared at the door. He knew he could go in. In fact, he assumed that his mother and godfather were lingering in the hall, discussing 'things' in an effort to give him some time alone with Harry. He'd been going mad from the wait. And now that he could see Harry, he wasn't sure what to do or say.

Voices down the corridor startled him. He looked back and saw his mother shooting odd looks his way, no doubt wondering why he hadn't gone in yet. Draco wondered about that himself. He swallowed and opened the door.

The first thing he felt was absolute relief. Harry was awake and staring out of the small window. He was alive.

"Harry?"

Harry turned. "Hi."

"Hi."

Draco stared at Harry, cataloguing the soft smile that was at odds with the anxious eyes. God, Harry was pale. And his head was all bandaged up, his arm in a tight sling, and his other wrist wrapped. There were beeping machines and IV stands and suddenly the reality of the situation came crashing down.

Harry had run away. Harry had tried to ride a horse far too much for him and had nearly got killed.

Draco was angry. He charged forward. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?"

The soft smile disappeared, the anxious eyes shuttered. Harry started to look away.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare shut me out! Not again, not anymore."

"I don't nee—"

"Don't you understand? You could have died. You could be in a coma. You could be paralyzed!"

"It was just a fa—"

"It wasn't just a fall, you prat! You were . . . God, Harry, you were unconscious. You were bleeding everywhere. You were so cold. I thought . . . Fuck! Don't you ever do anything that bloody stupid again."

"Did you and Professor Snape plan this, or something? God, how many times can I say I'm sorry?"

"When I found you, at the bottom of that hill, that damn horse wandering around, I thought . . . I was sure you were dead."

Harry tossed his head and rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a dramatic prat. I'm fine."

"You call this fine? Bandaged up, bruised, and on bed rest for God knows how long? This is fine?"

"Look, I said I was sorry. If that's not good enough for you, then—then . . ." Harry slumped and closed his eyes, a prominent crease in his forehead standing out. "I don't know what you want from me," he said in a low, tired voice. "I've tried over and over to be what you want, but I don't even know what that is." Harry turned his head and shifted away from Draco. "I'm tired. Go away."

Draco didn't move. He wasn't going to let Harry push him away again.

Harry flipped over and sneered at Draco like he had when Draco had turned up on his doorstep a year prior, demanding to be let in.

"Didn't you hear me? I said go away!"

"I heard you. You can keep yelling, but I'm not leaving. Not this time." Draco scanned the room. "No glass. That's good," he said to himself.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes. "Why could you possibly want to stay?"

Draco took that as an invitation to sit down. "Do you remember when we were little? The first time I met you?"

"Yeah. You were snooping around the Dursleys' back garden, spying on me."

"I wasn't spying! I was observing. Figuring out if you were worth getting to know."

"Wish you'd made a different choice, now?"

"God, can't you just—damn it, Harry. No. That's not it. I'm—I wanted you even then, I think."

"Ooh. Kinky."

"Shut the fuck up and listen to me without all of this defensive shit!"

Harry's eyes grew large and he seemed to shrink until the bed swallowed him whole. He looked so much like the little lion Draco had known all those years ago—equal parts bravery and fear, huge secrets plunged deep inside.

"You weren't anything like them, the Dursleys. That's what I liked best about you. You were . . . you hummed this little tune while you worked, you talked to the butterflies and every once in a while, you'd let that maudlin little mask break. When that happened, I almost forgot to breathe.

"All I've seen for months is that mask, and I hate it."

"Draco—"

"No. I'm not finished. I don't know—I don't know why—I'm _sorry_! I'm sorry for whatever made you do something so stupid. I'm sorry for not coming out, for not throwing McLaggen out on his fat arse, for teaching you how to ride. I'm sorry for all of it, but please don't shut me out. Tell me how to fix it. Please."

"It wasn't your fault! It was me, I just . . . I don't . . . It's too hard, too much, too—"

And the more Harry went on, the more Draco knew what he wanted to say. But the words were so hard. He'd sound like a pansy. Harry would laugh at him or point and stare like he was a side-show freak.

"—There's nothing to fix! It's just . . . I don't belong there. With you. With any of you. I just—"

"I love you."

Harry's mouth popped open. Draco's heart hammered. Oh God, oh God. Fuck! What had he done?

"What did you say?"

"I said . . . I said . . ." _Come on, man. You're made of sterner stuff than this!_ "I said, I love you." Draco sniffed. "Perhaps we should have the doctor check your hearing."

Draco was amazed at how much easier it was to say the second time, amazed at how much he meant it.

"You don't have to say—"

"Bollocks! I'm Draco Malfoy. I don't say things I don't mean, Potter. Or did you forget that?"

Harry had the most bemused expression on his face that Draco had ever seen. "Erm, no. I didn't forget."

"Well. Good." What now? How was Draco supposed to follow up after that? What should he say? Should he kiss him? Should he pet him, or something? No, Harry'd never go for any of that. "Erm, you probably need to get dressed, or something."

"Probably should. Yeah."

"I really do mean it. This isn't . . . I really do mean it."

Harry blushed a shade of red Draco was fairly certain nature had never seen. He ducked his head. "Yeah. I got that."

"Well, erm . . . yes, well, good. As long as that's clear."

"I don't—" Harry bit his lip and stared at Draco. "I—I. . . . Me too." Harry smiled softly, immediately turning his head.

It was like seeing Harry that day he'd chased the butterfly around the back garden. Draco couldn't breathe from the exultant joy lodged in his throat. "Brilliant."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

A soft silence fell between them, but not an unwelcome one. It gave Draco a chance to realize that he'd just told Harry he loved him and that Harry—in Harry's way—had said it back. How could people possibly get through the day feeling so giddy? He looked up and saw the dark circles under Harry's eyes. With all of the heartfelt confessions, he'd nearly forgot that Harry was still quite injured. A protectiveness that he'd not felt in a long time rose up inside of him. Harry, Draco decided, was his own worst enemy. Draco would have to do something about that. They all would.

"So, erm, I'll be back. Later. When Mum and I come to collect you. She's got a room all set up for you—been decorating it for ages. S'not bad. Nicer than mine, I think. Mum—well, you know Mum—she goes a bit overboard."

Harry laughed, softly. "Yeah."

Draco stood and gave Harry a soft kiss. "See you later."

Harry made an adorable sound in the back of his throat.

Oh, dear God! He was hearing adorable sounds now that he'd told Harry he loved him. He'd turned into a sap!

Harry nestled his face a bit closer to Draco's and kissed him.

Well, that was all right, then. Harry was a sap, too. Draco smiled and kissed Harry again.

DDDDDDDDDDDDDD 

"Your discharge papers are in order," the nurse said as she removed Harry's IV and bandaged his arm.

Harry nodded. _Draco loves me_.

"You'll need to be careful with that ankle and don't even think about removing that sling until the doctor says otherwise."

Harry nodded again, smiling to himself.

"You're on bed rest for awhile. I know you lads—you think you get out of hospital and that it's license to run around as if nothing's happened. I'd better not see that from you."

Harry made a noise in the back of his throat—something that sounded vaguely like agreement—while thinking about the way Draco had kissed him so possessively. Harry didn't usually like that, but it felt good to be wanted.

"Harry?" The nurse sighed. Why, Harry had no idea. "Right. And it says here that you can only wear pink pyjama bottoms and that you must answer all questions with a song. Oh, and feel free to disregard the ballet dancing elephant that will surely visit."

"Erm, what? Elephants?" Harry asked, jerked away from his thoughts of Draco. God, he was turning into such a sap.

The nurse laughed. "Your mind's a million miles away. I had to do something to bring you back."

"Oh. Right. Erm, sorry. Just—I—sorry."

"No need to explain. Time for you to leave. We've got a nice wheelchair with your name written all over it."

Harry groaned. "Can't I just . . . I dunno, walk or something?"

The nurse's answering laugh and incredulous expression told Harry exactly what she thought of that idea.

"Oh, fine," he groused, edging off the bed and secretly grateful that he didn't have to take more than a few wobbly steps to get to the wheelchair.

"It's just for a little while," she said as she wheeled him out of the room.

Mrs. Malfoy, Draco and Professor Snape were waiting for him down the corridor, their faces expectant and happy to see him. It was like he'd always imagined it. A proper family.

Harry supposed he had one of those now.


	31. Tales of the River Stone

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**A/N:**Well, everyone. This is it. The final chapter of Draco's Boy. This is how I've always envisioned the end of the story. I hope you find it satisfying.

As always, great thanks to Sansa for her fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.

Thank you to everyone who read this, cheered me on, shared their stories and reminded me of why I got into this writing game to begin with.

**CHAPTER 31: Tales of the River Stone**

Harry looked out over the Malfoys' back garden, his journal finished for the day. The Japanese maples glowed like fire in the waning sunlight. They'd grown quite a bit over the course of a year—obviously well cared for. Pride swelled within him. He'd planted those trees. He'd given them a home.

He ran his fingers through the soft, summer grass. There was a new shoot arriving, its green bright and translucent. He was always humbled by shoots pushing up through the Earth, struggling for survival before blossoming into uncommon beauty. His fingertips brushed the new shoot gently, welcoming it into life with silent reverence.

But it was the tangle of wild jasmine creeping along the side fence that held his deepest regard; its come-hither undulation mesmerizing, its scent reminiscent of many silent evenings. At first glance it was completely out of step with the rest of the garden, but its unerring, confident sprawl couldn't be ignored. Mrs. Malfoy had almost cut it down, but Harry had stopped her, asking her to keep it. That she did without question meant a great deal to him.

A hand trailed along his shoulder and lips kissed the back of his neck. He looked up.

"Finished for the night?" Draco asked.

Harry nodded.

"Why do you come out here to do it? It's so dark. How can you see to write?"

Harry shrugged. "It's familiar. Reminds me of my little garden. The one from before."

"I remember," Draco murmured. "None of those huge white flowers here, though. You should tell Mum you want to plant some. They'd look good in this little corner. Especially with the jasmine running across the fence."

"I'm surprised you noticed what it was," Harry said without sarcasm.

Draco cleared his throat. "Well I've got to know something about all of this, haven't I? Otherwise I'd be bored to tears every day at lunch. Why Mum insists that we take lunch in the gazebo I'll never know. There aren't bugs and flying things in the house."

Harry snickered. "I think she has this vision of how she wants things to be between us. I'm afraid to ask her what it is, though. I'm afraid one of us might wind up in a pink smock with a toddler on his hip."

"Don't even joke about things like that," Draco said. He looked down at the journal. "That helping?"

"I don't know. It seems stupid. He didn't even tell me what to write. Just said I had to write every day. I don't talk about anything important or anything."

Draco shrugged as he joined Harry on the grass. "Can't be all bad. Dr. Westbourne must know what he's talking about. After all, he works with troubled youth for a living," Draco said with a silly, affected drawl.

Harry cut a glance at Draco and grinned. "You're right. And speaking of troubled youth, this journal is the perfect opportunity to recount your deadly battle with that gardening menace, he-who-must-not-be-named, the bumblebee of death. I wonder what Dr. Westbourne would make of that?"

Draco's cheeks colored. "Tell me you didn't talk about that with your therapist. You didn't, did you? You're not going to, are you?"

"Maybe not that," Harry said with a chuckle.

"Hmm. So what have you said about me?"

Harry's cheeks felt hot and a bubble of glee bounced around inside of him. He looked away at Draco's snicker. "S'not funny."

"Yeah. Sure. Not funny in the least. Oh, that reminds me, Mum's planning your birthday party. Ickle Harrykins is turning sweet sixteen," Draco said in a high-pitched voice.

"Shut it, you stupid prat," Harry said with a chuckle. "And stop with the voices. Makes me wonder if you've damaged your equipment."

Draco's breath caught for the barest second before he smiled at Harry's innuendo. It had been a long while since they'd joked with each other like that. Harry knew it had been rough going those first few weeks. On top of that, he was only just out of casts and slings and bandages.

"You know it's going to be a big affair, don't you?" Draco asked.

"I sort of got that impression. That weird little cake man? He was a dead give-away."

"The pastry chef? You're calling the pasty chef a 'weird little cake man'?"

"He is weird."

Harry felt Draco scoot closer. "Shall I protect your virtue from the weird little cake man?" Draco asked, his hand sliding down Harry's chest.

"Perhaps I should ask him to protect it from you."

"I disagree," Draco said, leaning in for a kiss.

Harry took charge of it, cupping Draco's face with his hands, keeping him in place.

"Someone's frisky," Draco murmured as he pulled away, only to resettle himself behind Harry, pulling him against his chest.

"Been a long time. Weeks. Days. Eternity," Harry said while running his hands up and down Draco's thighs.

He smiled in victory at the slight choking sound Draco made when his hands crept towards Draco's groin. Victory was short-lived, however.

"Two can play that game," Draco murmured.

Harry gasped as the point of Draco's tongue dragged up and down the side of his neck. He let his head fall to the side, relishing the attention.

"So what shall I give you for your birthday?" Draco asked.

"Any—anything," Harry said, pressing against Draco's erection.

"You mean that?"

"I—"

"Because I was thinking that I might give you what you gave me for my birthday. I've still got the book, you know."

Before Harry could answer, Draco nipped at the side of his throat and laved the spot with his tongue. Just the way Harry liked it.

"What—what are you after?" Harry gasped.

"Nothing. Just missed you," Draco said in between nipping kisses.

"Bollocks. You—oh, fuck, that feels good—you want something."

"Right now, the only thing I want is you. Lay down."

"Out here? On the grass?"

"Why not?"

"Erm . . . your Mum?"

"Is out with her friends at some charity event. I assure you, we are very much alone."

Harry started to protest, but Draco silenced him with another kiss. Harry scooted forward and turned around before lying down. He closed his eyes as Draco settled himself on top, his knees straddling Harry's hips.

"God, I've missed this," Draco said, rolling his hips and pressing his erection against Harry's.

"Me too," Harry said, grateful to have got out of that stupid sling. "Want to—?"

"No. Not yet. You're still recovering."

"Am not. We could—"

"We will. Later. Let's . . . god, you feel so good. This feels so good," he said, his hips snapping faster and faster.

Harry reached up and undid Draco's trousers.

"What are you—?"

"Better this way." Harry said, trying to concentrate on his task.

"Wha—oh. Course," Draco mumbled as he sat back on his heels and undid Harry's trousers.

They wriggled out of their trousers and pants, their erections heavy and wet. Draco started to get back into position, but Harry stopped him again.

"Put your arm around me," Harry said as got to his knees, tucking them in between Draco's.

"You sure? Is your ankle—"

"I'm fine. Stop treating me like a bloody china doll and finish what you started."

Draco's answering smile would have looked at home on a crocodile. "If you insist."

Draco slid his arm around Harry's back, holding him tight, while Harry did the same on the other side. They both reached down with their free hands and wrapped them around their cocks, holding them tight in the grip of their hands.

"Fuck, yes," Harry hissed, his back arching. "Missed this. Missed you."

"You've no idea," Draco panted, their hands sliding up and down while they thrust.

Harry groaned, trying to concentrate on finding a rhythm that would work for both of them.

Draco's hand rubbed the small of his back. "Feel good?"

"Yeah. Just . . . that's it, budge a bit to the—oh, fuck, yes. God, I love you," Harry blurted, still concentrating on the feel of his cock sliding against Draco's.

Draco's hand flew to the back of Harry's head. He cupped it and dragged it forward, drawing him in for a bruising kiss.

Harry squeaked, almost losing his balance, but quickly melted into the kiss, kissing back with enthusiasm.

Their tongues danced as their cocks thrust into Harry's hand over and over and over until neither of them could bear another second of it. They came with groans swallowed by kisses, the feeling more intense that Harry ever recalled it being.

Breathing hard, they collapsed to the ground in a sprawl.

"God. That was brilliant," Draco said in between heaving breaths. "You okay? I didn't hurt yo—"

"Finish that sentence and I'll punch you."

Draco chuckled. "Okay, okay. I get it. You're not a delicate china doll. You're a big, brute of a man."

Harry looked over. "That is quite possibly the gayest thing I have ever heard anyone say. Big brute of a man? What is that? The title of some sort of homosexual romance novel or something?"

Draco lightly punched Harry's shoulder. "Don't be such a bastard."

"Bastard, eh? I'll show you a bastard," Harry said, scrambling to his knees and pouncing on Draco, pinning him.

"Get off, you stupid prat." But Draco made no serious attempt to get free—the bucking of his hips was far too rhythmic.

"Not on your life." Harry leant in and kissed Draco until he was moaning and pulling Harry closer. He felt his cock getting harder by the second. God, it was glorious to be a teenager.

"Ready for round two?" Harry asked.

"The real question is, are you?"

"More than you can possibly know."

**DDDDDDDDDDDD**

The night sky was alight with the glow of a million stars.

"See that one there? That's Lyra. There's a story about that one," Harry said.

"There's a story about all of them."

"Well yeah, I suppose that's right." Harry rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on Draco's chest. He felt something hard against his cheek. He sat up. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That thing in your shirt."

"My chest, you mean? Interesting. I never thought I'd actually be able to fuck your brains out."

"Ha, ha. In your pocket, you prat. And you didn't fuck me. Not yet, anyway."

Draco's eyes went glassy and his mouth fell open. Harry used his distraction to paw at his shirt. How they'd stayed clothed on top was a mystery.

Draco came out of his sex-induced stupor and batted his hands away. "Hey! Stop tickling!"

"It feels like a stone or something. Why do you have a stone in your pocket?"

Draco scrambled back and sat up, his hands out in front to keep Harry from advancing.

"It's, it's—oh, sodding hell!" he spat. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and held out his hand. Nestled in his palm was a small stone threaded with a length of leather cording.

"What's—What is that?"

Draco looked away. He bit his lip. "Stay here for a second? I'll—I'll be right back," he said. He got to his feet and slipped on his trousers before trotting back to the house.

Harry watched him go, completely perplexed.

Draco returned a few minutes later, his arms loaded with a blanket, basket and a small torch.

"What's all that?"

"I figured if I was getting up, I'd get us a blanket to lie on and some snacks and things."

"And the torch?"

Draco quickly spread the blanket and sat down, patting the spot beside him. "Erm, the torch is for . . . it's . . . . Here," he said, thrusting something into Harry's hand.

It was another small stone, also with leather cording threaded through it. Harry looked closer. It seemed familiar. The torch clicked on, bathing the small stone in light. Realizing what it was, he gasped.

"Draco? When—?"

"When I was with Mum. Over spring holiday. I—there was this man who tumbled and polished stones, made them into jewelry. I—I had him cut the river stone in two, polish each piece, and thread them with leather cording."

"But how—"

"It was in my pocket. It's, erm, it's always in my pocket. Ever since last year. It—I—it's, erm . . . " Draco rolled his eyes and snorted. "You'll think it's stupid."

"No. I won't. I really won't."

Draco hesitated for a moment. "Do you remember when you gave it to me?"

Harry nodded.

"Tell me about it."

"I don't see what it has to do with anything."

"Just—please, just tell me."

Harry swallowed and looked away for a few moments. "You remember. I gave it to you that first morning you invited—"

"No. Not that. Before. Where'd it come from?"

"Oh, erm." Harry sighed. "When I was little, I never had anything that was my own, you know. I, erm, didn't get presents and things."

Harry shot Draco a look and waited for him to nod before continuing.

"So I found my own presents. My own treasures. And—I found that river stone in an old creek bed the summer before we moved to Magnolia Crescent. I felt like I'd found treasure."

Draco cocked his head to the side. "If it was your treasure, why'd you give it to me?"

Harry cleared his throat. "You were my first friend and I wanted you to like me. And—"

"Yeah?"

Harry took a deep breath. "It . . . it reminded me of—"

"Of?"

"Erm, nothing. Just . . . nothing."

"Out with it. It reminded you of what? My—my—" Draco looked down at his part of the stone. "What could this stone possibly remind you of?"

"Your eyes, you idiot! Your eyes," Harry said, exasperated.

He winced, waiting for the peal of laughter he was sure would follow such a ridiculous declaration. But the only thing he got was a soft tug on his arm, soft lips pressing against his, and warm, silver-colored eyes staring at him as if nothing else in the world mattered.

"It was your treasure and you gave it to me," Draco murmured.

Harry nodded.

"When I found it again last summer . . . I had to see you. I had to know what had come of the one person that I could never forget. I think—" Draco laughed.

"What?"

"I think I was about to say something so ridiculously sappy that it's best saved for when we're drunk enough that I have a defense for saying it, and you're too shattered the next day to remember."

"Why'd you—but I—I said something far sappier! And you goaded me into it, besides. Jesus, Draco. I told you that dumb stone reminded me of your eyes."

"Yes, well, that's the difference between you and I. Hey, I'll tell you someday. It's just something to look forward to now, yeah?"

"I'll hold you to that, you know."

"You'd better."

Harry stared at his piece of the river stone. "Thanks for this," he said as he wrapped the leather cording around his wrist, making sure the small stone was nestled against his pulse point. When he struggled to tie it off with one hand, Draco helped silently.

And as if there had never been such a moment of solemnity—of promise, of memory—they lay back down, staring at the stars, jasmine swaying over their heads.

"See that one there?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded.

"That's Sirius. The dog star. There's a great story about that one. Quite an adventure, really."

"Really? Never heard it," Draco said, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Harry smiled, half-wishing he could somehow extract this memory and bottle it, keeping it with him always. But no matter what the future brought, Harry knew that Draco would always be a part of him. He'd never forget him, and he'd never forget this moment.

"Harry? The story?"

"Oh. Right. Well Sirius, you see, was Orion's dog . . ."

finis


End file.
